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by SoftObsidian74, verbalatte



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Angst, BAMF Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Is Not Your Damsel, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon-Typical Violence, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, POV Second Person, POV Steve Rogers, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Period-Typical Homophobia, Piercings, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reunions, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Steve Rogers-centric, Tattoo Artist Steve Rogers, Tattoos, Virgin Steve Rogers, mentions of past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-02 06:50:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 68,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19193866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoftObsidian74/pseuds/SoftObsidian74, https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbalatte/pseuds/verbalatte
Summary: When you wake up, SHIELD pulls out all the stops to convince you to stay and work for them. But they don’t even care enough about you to get their lies straight. If Bucky were here, he’d tell you to get the hell out and go back home. But Bucky’s dead and you don’t have a home anymore. Still, you’ve always been a disagreeable punk, too stubborn to back down from a challenge. Walking away from Captain America may be the biggest challenge you’ve ever faced, but you’re up to it.





	1. Reacclimation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2019 Captain America Reverse Big Bang, this story was inspired by Verbalatte's awesome art piece “Steve and the 21st Century”, which can be found in Chapter 9. 
> 
> As soon as I saw **Verbalatte** 's amazing piece in the preview slides I fell in love and this story begin to form. It was my #1 choice for claims and I feel so lucky we were paired together. I am extremely grateful and frankly floored that she created four additional art pieces, which can be found in Chapters 6 & 7\. I want to thank her for being a fully engaged collaborator. Verbalatte's input and feedback as a beta were invaluable towards my motivation to finish this fic and it also improved the story overall.  
>   
> To check out more of Verbalatte’s fantastic artwork, please visit her [Tumblr](https://verbalatte.tumblr.com)  
>   
> Also, a big shout out to my slack crew for their unwavering cheerleading and helpful feedback. They’re **my** home in this fandom. And to the CapRBB Mods- thanks for all of your hard work and for making this bang such a smooth event.  
>   
> This story was also beta'd by **Misanthrope_24** and **pitchforkcentral86**.  
>   
>   
>  **For Readers:** The hostel described in this story is based on a LGBTQIA youth center I used to volunteer for but obviously the names and location have been changed. I tried to tag for things that may be triggering. However, if you feel like something should be tagged as a trigger warning that has not been tagged, please let me know.
> 
>   
>  [](https://imgur.com/zB7TKRS)   
>    
> 

**March 2012**

You can’t tell if LMFAO is a parody or a serious act. Their “music” is catchy but the lyrics are downright ridiculous and none of these guys are playing instruments. Now that you’ve committed the list of internet and text slang to memory, you find the name of their band bizarre and a little funny. 

Vaguely, you wonder if SHIELD is feeding you this kind of stuff to inoculate you from the shock of what you may encounter ‘out there’. Or, perhaps, musical groups named after blue phrases are just a part of the new normal. The word ‘fucking’ definitely isn’t new, but you’re shocked it is so commonplace now. Perhaps it isn’t even blue anymore.

All of the videos you’ve viewed so far corroborate this theory. But who knows. Ever since you caught SHIELD in that stupid fake 1940’s hospital room set-up you hold a fair degree of skepticism towards their equipment and anything you happen to discover while on it. So you continue to browse the ‘YouTube’, keeping in mind it may be a part of another SHIELD scheme.

They got you holed up in a remote cabin. They’re calling it ‘reacclimation’ but it feels more like a cushy prison camp. 

Just like the fake hospital room you woke up in, it is all wrong. The lush blue couch, pine tree smell, and still life art have all the makings of real life but none of the soul. It feels like another movie set - too sterile and picturesque. Even the trees outside are symmetrically planted and you wonder what little detail they’ve screwed up this time. You keep looking and waiting for it.

Fury says this is standard operating procedure, a way of taking care of their own. This log cabin prison is supposed to be a safe and quiet place where you can get your head back in the game while adjusting to the 21st century. But Fury also orchestrated that hospital fiasco, so you don’t trust him. 

Over the past few weeks, it has become clear to you that reacclimation is just a new SHIELD euphemism. For what, you aren’t exactly quite sure. Programming? Waiting to be used as a weapon? Another gig as a dancing monkey for a new army?

But for all of the material they’ve given you to catch up on, there are conflicting reports and discussions about who the enemy is. Extremist terrorist cells are universally named as public enemy #1 but there are accusations leveled against the United States and other countries for creating them. Every cell and dictator seems to have some sort of tie to the very countries that have declared war on them. The more you read, the harder it seems to identify a clear enemy like Adolf Hitler. Although you do notice Nazi-light rhetoric in publications geared towards those who call themselves conservative Republicans. 

But if the _Washington Post_ , _New York Times_ , and _Newsweek_ are to be believed, when it comes to war, there are no clear lines between good guys and bad guys. Governments bend the lines, using manipulation and corruption as strategies to fight wars. For what exactly, isn’t clear. But there is one thing you are certain of - whatever it is SHIELD is ‘reacclimating’ you for is not the fight you signed up for in 1943. 

 

*

The videos are beginning to annoy you. It is too much information and not enough at the same time. Even with the vast library of DVDs and streaming services that give you an update on everything from world history to current events and pop culture, you know there are things you cannot search for here. And even if you could, the internet has taught you that whatever you do, especially on the computer, is probably being recorded by someone, somewhere. 

A dozen Google searches on Bucky only produce things that either aren’t true or things you already know. Combing through pages of black and white photos doesn’t erase the vivid color of the last time you saw him. 

Seventy years. That’s what they told you. Your heart says it is a lie, that it is only been a few weeks. Sometimes Bucky’s last scream still rings in your ears. Other times terrified ice blue eyes pin you down. You try to think of something, _anything_ , to push away the memory. But it is the only scar your body keeps now and you can’t stop picking at it.

An old familiar ache squeezes your chest. You force yourself to push away from the laptop. It is time to think, not feel. 

You eye the front door. There are two exits here. Both appear to be clear. But if you walk out now, those friendly SHIELD agents who come by to make awful small talk and see how you’re doing will put a call in to Fury. You haven’t been awake long, don’t really know much about this new century and you’re still learning its technology, but you know they’re watching you closely. 

So you try something you’re not very good at. You sit tight, practice patience and continue to play your part. You act naive, give them those earnest baby blues that say ‘I’m totally lost’, until you can figure out what your next move will be.


	2. Watching & Waiting

**April 2012**

You have a lot of intel now. Besides all the latest on history and current events, you know that all of the Howlies are dead and Peggy is still alive. Most sources speculate she’s under private care in the suburbs just outside of D.C. Part of you really wants to see her, and another part of you really doesn’t.

The last picture the internet provides is ten years old. Her dark brown eyes and noble nose are unmistakable. She’s still beautiful but now every line of her face holds the legacy of a life well lived. A life without you. And maybe that’s the way it was supposed to be. The dream of a life with Peggy always felt like cheating, no matter how much Bucky encouraged it. You try not to think about why. Thinking about Bucky in that way while contemplating Peggy feels wrong too.

Perhaps that’s why the universe never allowed you to have either one of them. Old guilt and confusion resurface. You physically shake them off and press “1” on the phone Fury gave you.

He answers the phone on the second ring with a lot of cheer. “Hello, Captain Rogers! How’s the weather up there?”

Fury wears his cheer like you used to wear Bucky’s pants; his tone is too big and doesn’t fit his surly demeanor.

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been outside.”

“You should get some air.”

You hum. “How far can I go to take in the air?”

Fury laughs. “You can go anywhere you want; we’re not holding you prisoner.”

You don’t need to hear Fury’s bullshit denial to know there’s a big implicit ‘but’ at the end of that sentence. So you don’t ask and he doesn’t lie. The silence that ensues is thick and it reminds you of playing chess with a new opponent.

“What can I do for you, Captain?” Fury finally asks.

You stand up and walk to the window. The sun is high now, its light spilling through the weird symmetrical trees to warm your face.

“I’d like to visit Peggy Carter.” You don’t even try to hide the challenge in your voice, fully prepared for an argument.

“That can be arranged,” Fury replies calmly. “When would you like--”

“Now.”

“Hmm, alright...well, we can certainly arrange a jet or a car to take you there.”

“Not necessary. I can make my own arrangements. Just need a location. The tutorials on modern technology were very helpful. I’ve already downloaded the Google map application.”

Fury laughs. This time it sounds genuine and you’re kind of proud of being able to make him laugh. “Excellent but uh, you’ll need more than the coordinates to get in to see Mrs. Carter. She’s special, and so are you. If you just stroll up there asking to see her, it’s going to attract a lot of attention. Trust me, having us escort you will make this a whole lot easier.”

In the game of chess, you recognize this is Fury’s check move. It is your turn now and you have to take a breath and remind yourself not to be an impulsive idiot.

You smile and nod even though Fury can’t see it. “Okay. I’d like an escort by car then.”

“Someone will be there in fifteen minutes. Make sure you grab a bite to eat first, it’s gonna be a long ride. ”

*

Somewhere between the cabin and Pennsylvania, the driver gives up trying to hold a conversation with you. For that you’re grateful. All of his inane questions about World War II and your abilities were really irritating.

The driver’s jazz music and the endless line of trees, strange cars, and billboards lull you into a strange calmness. But then the car hits Delaware and there’s a huge green sign that reads Washington D.C - 90 miles.

Your palms start to sweat and your chest grows tight like it is being squeezed into an invisible harness. Struggling to breathe is so familiar, you almost forget that it shouldn’t be a problem now. But it is, and that only makes breathing that much harder. You close your eyes and try to control it, hyper aware of the driver taking sudden interest in you.

“You alright, Captain?”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

“There’s bottled water in the small ice box there in the middle compartment. Just press down and the lid will flip.”

You meet his eyes in the rearview and offer a grateful smile. He still looks concerned, and you really don’t need this guy calling Fury and making a fuss.

Pressing down on the middle compartment, you find a cool water bottle. You’re pretty impressed but since the driver is probably expecting you to be, you keep your face neutral as you take a sip.

Only 90 miles stand between you and Peggy now. It is a lot closer than seventy years. What will you say to her? What will she think when she sees you? Should you try to call first? Has Fury already warned her? What the hell do you say to someone you could have had a life with after coming back from the dead? After putting her through the pain of a sacrifice that was far too easy for you, now that you have time to think about it. In retrospect, you know that putting that plane down in the ocean wasn’t really a sacrifice- it was surrender. Bucky’s last screams echo in your ears and you cough a little as water goes down the wrong pipe.

The driver turns to look at you, concern etched in his brow.

“I’m fine,” you say, waving him off. “Just need to slow down.”

He gives you a smile that looks more plastic than yours, and you have a feeling Fury is going to get an entire report on this. Just great. More monitoring.

The rest of the drive is agonizingly slow. The traffic going into Maryland is awful, and being stuck inside a roomy Sedan is giving you claustrophobia. It crosses your mind that you could probably sprint from here to the nursing home, but then you realize they didn’t give you the exact location for precisely that reason.

Finally the car comes to a complete stop and outside there’s a high gate and a silver box with numbers. The driver presses his thumb against it and the gates swing open. There’s a beautiful brick rancher down a long circular driveway. Nothing but acres of green grass as far as the eye can see. When the car pulls up to the rancher, you’re struck by the beauty of it. The bricks look recently washed, and the white trim of the place looks fresh. The walkway is adorned with red, white and blue flowers on each side. It all looks so manicured and well cared for, it feels tailored for Peggy.

The driver says he’ll sit there while you go in. You appreciate the space. Holding your chin up and squaring your shoulders, you enter the nursing home like a soldier preparing to face death. Deep down, you believe it will be very close to death because Peggy Carter holds grudges and she told you not to put that plane down in the ocean. Plus you still owe her a dance, and probably a hundred apologies.

A pretty blonde hostess greets you by name and smiles, but her honey eyes are assessing you, and you get the sense that even though you’re a super soldier, it would take some effort to disable her.

“Hi, I’m Steve,” you say with your best war bonds selling smile.

Her eyes soften and her cheeks grow red. “I know. We’ve been expecting you, Captain Rogers.”

She has you sign in and then directs you to Room 108.

You follow the direction of her pointed finger and realize that no matter how nice the outside looked, you were expecting institutional white and the smell of ammonia and sickness. They never allowed you inside of the Tuberculosis sanatorium your mother died in, but you’ve heard enough stories about them to draw the worst nightmare she must have been trapped in. This place is nothing like that, inside or out. It smells like lavender and cleanliness and it’s bright with carefully placed plants and art on the walls.

You walk down the nice multi-colored carpeted hallway, and you realize how quiet it is. You only pass one male orderly. There are no patients or doctors roaming around. No chatter or the clinks of equipment. You wonder if Peggy hates the silence here. Although you haven’t been a part of most of her life, you remember how busy and engaged she liked to be.

108.

You stare at it for too long and then think of how ridiculous Peggy would think you’re being. That gives you enough courage to open the door.

It is rather shocking. The way she’s sitting up, looking at you, like she’s been waiting. You freeze, staring down at her grey pin curls framing her pale wrinkled face. Those stunning eyes of hers are still as vibrant and perceptive as you remembered, only set within her face now, they also shine with a lifetime worth of wisdom.

“Peggy,” you breathe before you can even think.

She squints and leans over. It looks like a struggle. You rush to her so she can see you properly. There’s a medicinal smell, like her pores are leaking out all of the drugs she’s on. Her bright eyes turn dull like a cloud covering the sun. She scrunches up her face like she’s trying to make sense of who you are and why you’re in her room. You back up, afraid that you’ve crossed a line. Just because you two used to be almost-a-thing doesn’t mean you are welcome to be that close or even here at all.

But then she’s smiling. Her eyes are bright and sharp again. “Steve?”

“Hey, how’s it going?” you say dumbly, mentally face-palming yourself.

_How’s it going? She thought you were dead, and you haven’t seen each other in nearly 70 years, and that’s what you open with?_

She laughs as if you said a joke. Probably because your attempts at conversation always were exactly that. But then she’s reaching out with a thin frail hand. You gently take it in both of yours.

“You’re alive,” she whispers, staring up at you with fierce pride and just a touch of smugness, like she always knew.

“I’m alive,” you breathe, and then have to break out into a surprised laugh. How crazy is it that you’re here? It is still hard to believe. “I have no idea how, but I am. It’s so good to see you, Peggy. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

She bats at your arm like you’re putting her on, but her smile says she appreciates the compliment. “Well come and sit down. Tell me what happened.”

You pull up a chair, take a deep breath, and proceed to tell her everything. All the things you remember, and even the parts you can’t remember that they told you when you woke up, and the things you’ve seen and heard after that.

She listens. Her expression shifts often. She frowns, smiles, and laughs. Sometimes, her eyes look unfocused and she looks confused, like you’re speaking a foreign language, or perhaps trying to figure out who you are.

It makes you feel small again. When the clouds in her eyes take over, it is hard to find your way out of them. You keep holding her hand, waiting for the light to come back. As soon as it does, you sigh in relief and find the path back to the story you were telling, rambling on until you run out of words.

“So here I am,” you finish lamely because that’s all you got. Your future is uncertain; you have no plans to talk about.

“You look good,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes.

Your face heats up. It makes you smile a little to think that after all this time, she still has this effect on you.

“So what now?” she asks.

“That’s the million dollar question.” You look away, embarrassed not to have a plan. You always have a plan, it was one of the things she liked about you, you think. But here you are, aimless.

Your eyes land on the line of photographs around her bed. A husband. Children. Pilot. Speaking before a huge audience. Grandchildren. Receiving a lifetime achievement award from someone who looks important. Perhaps a president.

“You should be proud of yourself, Peggy.”

She follows your eyes to the photographs. “Mmm. I have lived a life.” She closes her eyes and you think perhaps you’ve lost her to sleep. But then a few moments later, she opens them, looking at you clearly. "My only regret is that you didn't get to live yours.”

You chew on your bottom lip, clamping down on your tongue and the doubts it wants to voice. You didn’t come here for that. Your problems are your own.

But Peggy always could read you better than most. She narrows her eyes and frowns. “What is it?”

Well then. There’s no hiding here, and really, you have no one else to talk to. Might as well confess to the conflict eating up your conscience.

“For as long as I can remember I just wanted to do what was right. I guess I'm not quite sure what that is anymore. And… I thought I could throw myself back in and follow orders, serve. I'm afraid it won't be the same.”

She starts to huff a chuckle. “You're always so dramatic. Look, you saved the world. We rather mucked it up.”

You shake your head fiercely. “You didn't. Knowing that you helped found SHIELD is half the reason I stay.”

She takes your hand then. “The world has changed and none of us can go back. All we can do is our best, and sometimes the best that we can do is to start over.”

Harsh coughs disrupt her words, and you rush to get her a glass of water. Your heart clenches as you watch her drink with a shaky hand. When she hands the cup back to you, her eyes are like lasers, staring deep into you. You raise your eyebrows in question.

“You can have a life that doesn’t include SHIELD. They don’t own you.”

Relief floods through you, and you realize that’s what you wanted to hear. Still, it’s not enough to drown out the lingering doubts and guilt.

“But I made a promise. When Erskine chose me---”

She rolls her eyes hard. “Erskine is dead. You died for your country. I’d say you’ve fulfilled your duty. You don’t owe anyone anything. What do _you_ want?”

“I don’t know.” It slips out unexpectedly, but you don’t regret it. It’s the truth.

There’s a small smirk on Peggy’s lips. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound like it has anything to do with fighting for SHIELD. Walk away and go find your happiness. You deserve that.”

A great sigh leaves you as the weight of confusion and the nagging sense of obligation slides off your back.

“Thank you,” you whisper, taking her hand to kiss it.

“And don’t let them hound you about it. Even if they try to guilt trip you about duty and service. Your only duty now is to reclaim the life you sacrificed. I know you want to help others. But there are other ways to serve.”

“Why do I get the feeling they’re not gonna let me go that easy?” you say with a wry smile.

Peggy chuckles. “Then let them come. The Steve Rogers I remember was as stubborn as an ox. It was easier trying to move a mountain than change your mind once it was made up. When they come for you, plant yourself like a tree, look them in the eye, and say--”

“No. I’m done.”

She smiles then. “You’re done.”

Tears prick your eyes and you feel silly. Peggy’s eyes are understanding and she pulls her hand out from your grip and raises it. Grateful, you lean forward and let her touch your face. Her frail hand is cold, too cold. Your heart clenches with regret and the awareness that even with an extra seventy years, time is too short.

The coughing starts again, and the bed shakes with the force of it. You rush to get her water, and she settles as she drinks it down. You take the cup from her, and when you return to her side, the clouds have returned to her eyes.

“Steve?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, drawing closer.

“You're alive! You…you came, you came back!”

It is the look you were expecting when you first entered her room, not after spending nearly a half an hour together. 

“Yeah, Peggy,” you barely get out as your heart splinters.

She begins to cry. “It's been so long… So long.”

You want to cry too, but for different reasons. Instead, you put your best face on and lean in close, hoping your next words will light the way until the clouds in her eyes pass again.

“Well, I couldn't leave my best girl. Not when she owes me a dance.”

That brings new tears to her eyes and then she smiles. You tell her the same story you told her half an hour before, and then the attendant comes in and tells you she needs to rest.

By the time you get back to the car, you’re sad and a little bit angry. The strongest person you’ve ever met is losing her hold on reality and it looks like she’s going through it all alone. Of course, that may not be the case. You really don’t know. When you asked if she receives regular visitors, the nursing staff declined to answer your questions. To make matters worse, before you left, Peggy made it clear she wants you to move on, that this was a goodbye, not a see you later.

Still, you manage to get the check-in girl’s phone number. Amy is her name and she promised to give you a general update if and when you call.

Back at the car the driver asks if there’s anywhere else you’d like to go.

“How about the train station?”

You’re only half-joking, but he laughs like it is the funniest joke in the world. 

“Next stop is SHIELD headquarters. I believe Mr. Fury would like to have a word with you.”

Sounds like horseshit. You have a SHIELD issued phone and Fury has one too. You can feel the frown pulling down your lips. But the driver is watching you again, so you look out the window.

As the gravel crunches beneath the wheels and the nursing home becomes a new memory, Peggy’s voice rings in your head.

_When they come for you, plant yourself like a tree…_

But when?

You could jump out right now. The car isn’t moving very fast, and there are places you can run that the driver could not maneuver this big car into.

Running would be the easy part. Where to go is much harder. Bucky would probably tell you to keep your head on straight. Get more intel and try a little patience.

 _Not one of your strongest traits._ Bucky used to say, and he was right.

If you really want to leave, you have to do it right. So you’ll practice patience, and play Fury’s game a little longer while you watch and listen.

 

*

SHIELD is everything you imagined. All glass and steel, it is at least five stories high. The driver pulls into a high security garage, and parks. He escorts you to the elevator where two men wearing suits and blank faces await.

The suits are cordial and stiff. They don’t make a lot of eye contact with you, just a quick scan and then they’re looking around. They have wires coming out of their collars, connected to their ears. You wonder if that allows Fury to listen in, or if it is some sort of gadget designed to help them talk to each other, like a futuristic walkie-talkie.

The elevator is mostly steel but the back is all glass. The suits press their thumbs against some sort of scanner until it glows green and presses the number ‘14’. As the elevator ascends, you remember the building looked to be only five stories. You start wondering how many floors underground there may be. Floors even most people inside of SHIELD may never see. Thinking about that starts to give you the creeps, so you look behind you, where the D.C. skyline is spread out in plain view. It is nothing like New York, but it makes you think about Bucky. Neither of you ever got a chance to visit and Bucky had always talked about making a trip of it. He wanted to see all of the monuments and take you to the museums. You wanted to go too, but not for any of that stuff; you just wanted to be there when he saw those things, to watch his handsome face light up.

“Captain Rogers,” one of the men says, extending his arm out towards the opened doors of the elevator.

You nod and follow, surprised and a bit disturbed by how quickly you lose focus, or even awareness when thinking about Bucky.

They take you down a long white hall, where all of the doors are shut until you see Nick Fury’s name in bold white letters set in black slate. One of the guys opens up the door, and extends his hand.

“Captain Rogers!” Nick Fury says with a smile so wide it looks like he’s trying to show you every one of his teeth.

Wary, you give him a curt nod. “Fury.”

“How was your visit to see Agent Carter?”

You stiffen. “It was fine.” The door clicks shut and you give it a suspicious glance.

Fury chuckles. “At ease soldier, this is a friendly visit.”

You raise your eyebrows. “So I can just walk right back out if I like?”

“Sure,” Fury says with an easy smile. “But, I think you’re gonna wanna stick around to hear what I have to say.”

You cross your arms, raise your chin.

Fury sighs. “It’s a new world, Cap. We’re fighting different enemies now. Enemies with the same ambition as Hitler, but with the capability of taking out _everyone._ ”

Fury’s words stoke an old fire of righteousness. A flare of anger bubbles up and spreads through your veins. You clench your fists as plans begin to form. You’ll need to assemble a good team to flush out these assholes.

But Fury’s watching you closely, waiting for something. There’s a twinkle in his eye that pulls you out from your anger. He’s still playing chess and he almost took your queen. This is just a pitch to hook you, reel you back in just like Peggy said they would.

“You think I can help root them all out?” you asked dumbly just to play along.

“It’s worth a shot,” he says with a conspiratorial smile of old war buddies having a familiar conversation.

It’s a nice play, but far too presumptuous.

“All of this technology, weapons…” you point around the room to the hologram map and cameras. “You have spies and agents, but you’re telling me you’ve been waiting for me to wake up to neutralize your most important threats?” 

Fury stuffs his hands in his pockets as he walks over to the large wall length window. “We’ve been doing the best we can. Like I said, the world has changed. Some things aren’t as black and white as you think. We can’t just go in, guns blazing, and take people out. ”

“But I can?”

“You represent something. Something people trust. People believe in you, Cap. It would go a long way in helping us get into places we’ve been shut out from. You could help restore the public’s faith in what we’re doing and build goodwill, which would get us a lot further.”

You hum. “Is that because some of the bad guys on your list have received assistance from the C.I.A?”

Fury sighs. “Like I said, things are complicated. That stuff is above my pay grade. I’m just here to minimize threats to the public.”

“The threats we created?”

The glare of Fury’s one eye is almost deadly but it is the most honest thing he’s given you so far. “It doesn’t matter who created it, Cap. What matters is that people are in danger.”

You cock your head. “When I signed up to fight, good men were being sent to fight and die for the greater good. These ‘wars’ you fight? It’s hard to tell who the good guys are. I’m sure there are plenty of good people here doing what they can to make the world better. But… I don’t want to fight battles we started.”

Fury grunts and clasps his hands behind his back as he turns to look out the window, towards the D.C. skyline. You stare at it too, wondering just how much SHIELD can see from here and how many eyes they have on the ground in the city and beyond.

“What if I told you there are new threats out there that have nothing to do with us. Threats that come from above, beyond our planet.”

He turns back to look at you with one single eyebrow raised. Perhaps he expects to see shock on your face, but you saw Schmidt rip off his face and the unearthly weapons he created with the Tesseract.

“I’d say I hope you’re wrong. That whatever it is out there, stays out there. But if something does come here looking for a fight, I get the feeling SHIELD would hold out a welcome mat so they could examine it up close.”

Fury huffs, his cheery pretense completely gone. “So you’ve made up your mind.”

You give a curt nod. “I have.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Captain. It’s our loss.” He’s forcing a grin, his eye still studious.

“So that’s it? Meeting’s over?”

“Meeting’s over,” Fury says. “You’re free to go.”

It's too easy. You haven’t been around Fury much or known him for very long but nothing about him screams he would let go of someone with your abilities that easily. Guys like him catalog everything as an asset or a liability. Letting you go creates a liability and he wants more assets. So he’s probably going to put a tail on you, have you followed. Maybe have you restrained and kidnapped until they figure out what to do with you. It’s a dark thought, but it’s there all the same.

“You know, on second thought, I think I’ll stick around a little longer,” you say with a smirk.

Fury looks surprised.

You shrug. “Look, I’m not going to lie - some of the things you’ve described concern me. I want to know more.”

A slow smile breaks over Fury’s face. This one looks genuine. He’s not a bad looking guy when he’s not brooding.

“Oh you haven’t heard anything yet. We’ve got intel that will make your hair stand up on the back of your neck. But let’s take it slow. You just got back and I imagine this is all a bit overwhelming, so we’ll ease your way in.”

You give him your best dopey smile and nod agreeably. “Thanks, I appreciate that. Oh and uh, there’s just one more thing.”

“You name it,” Fury says, holding out his hands in invitation.

“I want to stay here, in DC. No more cabins in the middle of nowhere.”

“You got it.” Fury pulls a phone out of his jacket. “I’ll arrange for you to stay in one of our field apartments.”

You shake your head. “No thanks. I’d like to find my own place using my own money.”

Fury smiles and puts away his phone. “So you calculated the back pay and benefits…”

“Sure did. Did you know that there’s at least three Captain America back pay calculators online?”

“No, I did not know that.” He looks at you admirably. “Must be pretty strange for you.”

You shrug. “It’s handy. Just tell me who I need to talk to and I’ll take care of the rest.”

There’s a twinkle in Fury’s eye, and you wonder if he thinks he’s won the game. You hope he’s not that stupid.

“You’re lucky, you know,” he says. “You were listed as M.I.A. If you hadn’t changed the beneficiary from Barnes to Carter everything would have went to the Barnes’ family. But you switched it right before your last mission. A little birdie informed me that Carter has a separate account for all of it. It’s almost like she was expecting you to come back.”

That hits you right between the eyes and renders you speechless.

You remember now. Watching on helplessly as Bucky fell. Coming back to the base in a daze and debriefing Phillips about everything. The numbness you felt as Phillips offered his condolences and asked if you needed anything. ‘No’, you replied. Then you walked straight over to the administrative tent and requested a Change of Beneficiary form. They asked if you wanted to review the old form first. But you didn’t want to see Bucky’s name or think about why you suddenly had to leave everything to Peggy. It is only now that you realize it was some sort of fucked up apology. Somehow, deep down, you had already made up your mind to follow Bucky.

When Peggy found you in that bombed out tavern a few hours later, unsuccessfully trying to drown yourself in whiskey, you almost told her. But you knew if you did, she would have had you grounded, maybe recommend you to have your head checked.

“Captain?”

Fury’s brow is furrowed and he’s about a foot closer than he was the last time you noticed him. “Are you alright?”

You nod quickly. “Yeah.”

“OK,” Fury says like he’s not quite convinced. “Well, while you get started on all of the paperwork to establish you’re now alive, you’ll need a place to stay. My original offer still stands.”

“How about a hotel?” you counter.

Fury takes a breath in through his nose and rolls his eye. He’s disappointed. Probably because he wanted to put you somewhere with more cameras or whatever technology they use for spying. “Fine. Anything else?”

You stroke your chin playfully, enjoying the exasperation in Fury’s eye. “Yeah… I’d like my bike back.”

Fury barks out an unexpected laugh. “That I can’t do. You’ll have to talk to the Smithsonian about that. I think it’s under their care. Word on the street is they’re planning a big exhibit about your life.”

“What?”

Fury shrugs. “That’s what I heard. Supposed to open in 2014 sometime. Anyway, once you get your bank account set up, you’ll be able to buy a new one….after you get your license of course.”

You sigh. “Right. I need a license.”

Fury smiles. “In the meantime, Rex will drive you anywhere you want. I trust the ride over was comfortable?”

“Yeah, it was fine.”

“Good,” Fury extends his hand. “Amanda, your new assistant, is waiting outside. She’ll get you set up with a clearance badge and your paperwork.”

You cock your head. “Sounds like you already knew I was going to stay.”

Fury smiles. “It’s my job to read people, Cap.”

It’s almost funny how smug Fury sounds.

As you turn to leave, he calls after you. “Looking forward to seeing you around here more. There’s a National Security debriefing tomorrow if you’re interested. 9am.”

You look back over your shoulder. “Sure. See you then.”

He still has that smug look on his face as you step out the door and into the hallway. You let the door click shut and then smile to yourself. Fury thinks he has won, but chess is a long game, and this one is still going.


	3. Escape from D.C.

When you leave Fury’s office, there’s a young heavyset brunette with a short bob standing outside of his door.

“Captain Rogers,” she says with a bright smile, extending her hand. “My name is Amanda Sterling. I’ll be assisting you with your transition.”

Her handshake is just as warm and enthusiastic as her smile. There’s a lot of light in those hazel eyes of hers.

“Nice to meet you, Amanda. So you’re the one who’s going to officially bring me back to life?”

She nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Please,” you wave your hand. “Call me Steve.”

Her eyes pop. “Ok... Steve it is.”

“How long have you been at SHIELD?” Because she looks like a kid, no older than 21 or 22.

Her eyes narrow ever so slightly and she raises her head by a hair. “Over a year. I’m an in-house agent assigned to special projects, and ---”

“Wait… I’m a special project?”

“Well, yeah, you’re _really_ special,” she says with a grin. “And I know I may look young but I’m actually only a year younger than you are, well, subtracting the seventy years part, and this isn’t my first job. I used to work for the FBI. I am the youngest SHIELD agent to be promoted this fast in over ten years though, but that’s a strength.”

She says of all of this very quickly with an urgency that conveys she wants to put you at ease, not brag.

You nod in approval. “That’s quite impressive.”

“Thank you,” she says brightly. “So, first things first, here’s your agency credit card.” She pulls out a small black plastic card and hands it over. “Also, I went ahead and ordered you some basic necessities including clothing to hold you over until you get a chance to shop on your own. They’ve already been delivered to your hotel room. Oh, and you’ll be staying at the Jefferson. It’s fabulous! Now, if you need anything else like a massage or hair cut, I can book your appointments for you or order in-home service. Not that you need a barber or anything, your hair is awesome. ”

“Thanks,” you say absently, still trying to process the black credit card in your hand along with the implications of purchasing anything on SHIELD’s dime right before you quit. Would that put you in their debt? The thought is unsettling. 

“Oh, and I’m working on getting you legit ID and setting up your bank account as we speak, you should have all of that soon.”

You want to pat her back and tell her to relax, but you see a little bit of yourself in her and want to protect her feelings too.

“Looks like you have everything under control,” you say instead. “I think I’m in good hands.”

She preens and gives you a proud smile. If Bucky were here he’d give you a sly wink and tell you to go for it. He was always thinking about your love life.

Amanda is not your type though. Objectively, she’s attractive, but her hair isn’t dark enough, her eyes are the wrong color, and she doesn’t have a Brooklyn accent or...

Shit. You’re doing it again. Bucky’s _dead._ Just thinking about it makes your chest ache. But you have to stop moping and focus on the present. Amanda seems nice, and nice people are your kind of people. Plus all of your friends are dead or dying; it’s a good idea to try to make a few new ones.

When she begins walking towards the elevator, you follow.

“So where can a fella get a decent meal around here?”

“You should check your phone. I installed ‘Yelp’ on there. Oh, Yelp is an app for---”

“I know what Yelp is.” You try to keep the exasperation out of your voice. Some of it bleeds through anyway. It’s not her fault, but you’re still a little bitter about being locked away for nearly a week with nothing but tutorials on modern technology. “I just find it hard to believe it can beat a good recommendation from a friend.”

She literally covers her heart with her hand like you just gave her a wonderful present. “Well, since you asked…. I _love_ sushi. Have you ever had it?”

You squint, your stomach turning a little. “That’s raw fish, right? I think I need to work my way up to that.”

“Oh come on, live a little, _Steve_ ,” she says, putting a hand on her hip. “You just came back from the dead. If subzero temperatures didn’t kill you, raw fish won’t stand a chance.”

You laugh, a good deep belly laugh, the kind you haven’t had since before Bucky fell.

Her eyes light up like she just accomplished something quite difficult. Perhaps she did.

“Alright, I’ll give it a try. But if I get sick and die, it’s your fault.”

“If you get sick or die, I’m totally fucked and going into hiding.”

You snort. People tend to watch their language around you like they think you’re some sort of morality cop. You immediately like her 1000% more.

“Did I say that out loud?” She’s turning beet red, covering her mouth.

“Fuck yeah, you did,” you say with a smirk.

“Oh. my. god. Are you secretly a smart ass?”

You shrug.

She claps. “Yay!”

*

The Jefferson hotel is really swanky. The decor is simple, restrained and reminiscent of the old European sensibilities you saw in bombed-out ruins in France and Italy. But the gleaming marble floor, stiff concierge, and oversized paintings of old white men reeks of the kind of wealth you despise. Even the hotel’s guests are stuffy with their stuck up noses, soft clipped orders, and their refusal to engage in simple pleasantries with the help. You hate it. As soon as you can get your hands on your own money you will find a regular apartment in a regular neighborhood filled with regular people.

Until then you’re stuck in the classiest hell imaginable. The cabin bed was too soft, but it was firm compared to this one. You end up sleeping on the en suite couch, dragging the duvet and two pillows with you.

The following morning you wake up to the sound of your phone vibrating along the glass table. You jerk up suddenly and realize your shoulder is aching from sleeping on a couch too small for your frame. Your phone screen says it is 8:17am and there’s a short message from Amanda asking if she can come up. You text back a quick ‘sure’ and then make haste to brush your teeth and push down your unruly hair.

When you open the door she’s practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Good morning, Steve!” she says as she steps inside.

She hands you a blue plastic, SHIELD security clearance badge on a blue lanyard, and an itinerary of upcoming suggested meetings you can attend. Her suggestion sounds more like insistence but it is worded very politely.

“I mean you don’t have to go, but I really think you should because everyone who's anyone at SHIELD attends those, and they’re all just dying to meet you. Especially Assistant Director Coulson, the number two contact programmed on your phone. He’s really cool. I think you’d like him.”

“Huh,” you say, glancing back at the phone on the coffee table. “How many people are programmed on that thing?”

Amanda’s smile turns strange. “Um, well, Fury is number one, Coulson is number two, and Maria Hill is number three, and I’m number four.”

“That’s helpful but, you didn’t really answer my question. And who’s Maria Hill?”

Amanda’s strange smile turns into a smirk. There’s new admiration in her eyes, like you just lived up to some unspoken standard.

“Maria Hill is the deputy director of SHIELD.” She looks past you to the couch where there’s a rumpled duvet and a pile of pillows. “How do you like the hotel?”

“It’s…. nice.”

“Not your style, is it?” She gives you a knowing smile that pulls a surprised chuckle out of you.

“No. Not at all.”

She nods. “Well, you won’t have to be here long. Ms. Carter signed over the account yesterday, so you should have access to everything by tomorrow. You’ll be able to shop for your own place in a few days.”

You sigh in relief. “Great. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Steve. That’s why I’m here.”

“Still, I appreciate it.”

“Well, I appreciate you telling me you appreciate it,” she says batting her eyes dramatically.

You shake your head and chuckle.

“And guess what else I’m here for?” she asks with a mischievous smirk.

“Hmm…” You raise a curious brow. “To introduce me to sushi breakfast food?”

Amanda's eyes go wide. “That’s actually not a bad idea. I’ve never had sushi for breakfast, but no. You’re close though. Have you checked out Starbucks yet?”

You’ve seen Starbucks. There seems to be one on almost every corner. But heavy foot traffic going in and out has kept you away.

“No, not yet. They look really crowded.”

“Yeah, they can be. Which is why I’m glad you haven’t been corrupted yet. No matter what anyone tells you, Starbucks is not the best coffee in town.”

“What is?”

“I’m about to show you, Padawan,” she says, turning to leave.

You narrow your eyes as you follow her. “What’s a Padawan?”

“Oh boy, one thing at a time, Steve. First, let me introduce you to good coffee. Star Wars is at least a three day discussion.”

 

*

You and Amanda go to The Embassy, which is around the corner from SHIELD. It is emptying out but you two still find a place in the corner, away from the windows. Amanda says it is her mission to ‘broaden your horizons’ and get you to try all the best things of the 21st century. So you’re drinking a caramel mocha latte, trying to parse out if it is too sweet or actually tasty.

“How did you sleep?” Amanda asks like she already knows.

“Not that great.” You take another large sip of the hot drink. Yep, it is too sweet _and_ also tasty.

“If there’s a problem with your bed, I can--”

You shake your head. “No. It’s fine. I just… have a lot on my mind.”

She watches you for a moment, her eyes sympathetic. “I can imagine. It’s a lot to take in. I’d probably freak out if I woke up in a new century. Honestly, I’m surprised you---”

She quickly shuts her mouth and takes a long sip of her drink.

You cock your head. “What?”

The long considering look she gives you is concerning. “You’re the real deal. A real life superhero. You gave your life to save the world. And now by some miracle, you’re back, and what do you do? You sign up to serve _again_. That’s…” She shakes her head. “They don’t make guys like you anymore.”

You sigh, guilt creeping in. “Don’t give me so much credit. I haven’t signed up for anything yet. I’m just… here. I don’t really have anywhere else to go.”

Amanda raises her eyebrows. “So…if you _could_ go somewhere else, where would you go?”

You huff out a breathless chuckle. “I have no fucking idea.”

“But you’ve been thinking about it.”

It is a statement, not a question. Her hazel eyes have gone sharp with awareness. You feel exposed and stupid and frankly, a little relieved.

Chewing the inside of your lip, you size her up once more. Can you trust her? You’ve only known her for a day but your gut tells you she won’t rat you out.

“It’s hard to search for other options when my every move is being tracked,” you softly confess.

A series of expressions pass over her face before she strokes her chin sagely. It would be funny if you weren’t so damn curious about what is running through that big brain of hers.

“Did I ever tell you why I joined SHIELD?” she asks.

You shake your head. “No.”

She bats her eyes fast and dramatic. “SHIELD is the world’s leading authority in counterintelligence.”

You swallow, pushing down the hope blooming inside of your chest. She can’t be saying what you think she’s saying. “Is that right?”

She smirks. “Yeah. And you wanna know something else?”

You nod dumbly as she leans in.

“I aced their espionage cognate, which ain’t easy to do. So, Steve, my good friend, I know a thing or two about disappearing.”

“Even if an organization of trained operatives and super spies is looking for you?” you ask skeptically.

Her smile turns devilish. “ _Especially_ when an organization like that is looking for me. You have to learn from the best to be the best.”

Oh shit. She _is_ saying what you thought she was saying. You take a large sip of your coffee, watching her watch you.

The long stretch of silence that follows is full of uncertainty and possibility. But for the first time since you spoke to Peggy, you feel like maybe, just maybe you can pull this off.

“That’s uh, very interesting.”

She grins back. “Isn’t it though?”

*

Over the next few days you try out a lot of coffee shops and sushi restaurants in D.C., Maryland, and Virginia, which Amanda refers to as the DMV. She really enjoys watching your face as you take the first taste of her favorite foods and drinks, and you enjoy her boundless energy and optimism.

The two of you develop a way of talking about how someone can evade being tracked and hide from the federal government without actually talking about it. Amanda calls it ‘talking in code’ and she thinks you’re really bad at it. Thankfully she’s patient and a good teacher. When she’s not teaching you how to live ‘off the grid’, you bide your time going through the motions at SHIELD.

They send you to a lot of doctors who put you through physical assessments and take your vitals, urine and blood. You try not to think about how they’re comparing pieces of you now to what they have in storage.

Bucky would have bust his appendix laughing out loud if he could have seen your reaction to the SHIELD psychologist’s request for you to ‘process your trauma out loud’ by ‘unpacking your emotions’. You kind of want to punch him in the face, and then you realize he’s just doing his job and you feel like a dick. Things definitely have changed. Emotions used to be things you hid until you could find a quiet room to drag them out and stomp them out. People certainly did not go around ‘processing’ their most intimate feelings with perfect strangers.

But the psychologist is taking notes and watching you very closely. So you play along, give a good sob story about feeling out of balance in this new century. Lying is not your strong suite, but this one comes easy. You do feel out of balance because you’re doing this without Bucky. If he were here you could quantum leap into 3011 and land on your feet sure and steady. You don’t tell the doctor that; SHIELD has taken enough of your flesh, they don’t get your heart too.

In between the prodding and poking, you wander around the building. It doesn’t take long to figure out that your high-level security SHIELD badge allows you freedom to walk around most of the building. You take advantage of this whenever you are at SHIELD, partially out of curiosity, partially to test boundaries. When you enter into an area that is especially restricted, someone always approaches to introduce themselves to ‘see how you’re doing’. They are friendly but after they introduce themselves, they rarely stray far.

You end up attending a few SHIELD debriefings. Most of them are facilitated by Hill, the pretty and stern looking deputy director. She mostly speaks to Coulson, Fury, or the Strikeforce. Coulson is a nice guy, a bit too starry eyed and eager to greet you, but a solid team player from the looks of it. The Strikeforce leader, Rumlow, is brash, cocky, frank and pragmatic. He also has a dirty sense of humor that makes your skin crawl. If you were staying though, you’d probably pick him for any team you assembled. But they’re a long ways off from taking action. If there’s one thing you’ve learned about SHIELD’s debriefings is that they are 20% intel and 80% bullshit. Mostly it’s speculation, arguing about strategy, and the politics of a strategy. Every time you glance at Fury he either looks bored or exasperated.

Sometimes he turns to give you a pointed look, like he’s waiting for you to speak up. You never do. Fury usually ends up rolling his eye and turning in his seat. Perhaps that’s why you were invited - to shake things up, push past the speculation, demand action. But if you engage, you’re in. You can’t do that because you’re leaving. At least that’s what you keep telling yourself.

It has been four days since you made that promise to Peggy and three days since you planned to make an exit strategy. Two days have passed since Amanda started teaching you about cryptocurrency, burner phones, and alias identities. But all you have right now are memorized schedules of every train and bus heading out of town.

*

Five days after making your promise to Peggy, you rise at the break of dawn and put on the brand new pair of tennis shoes Amanda bought you and go running around the Tidal Basin path towards the Jefferson Memorial. Between the nightmares and bursts of anxious energy, you really don’t sleep much these days anyway.

Running helps you clear your head, really think about the predicament you’re in. Everything in the 21st century is tracked by camera and electronic monitoring. SHIELD has every piece of your DNA on file, and they know where your money is. You can’t run anywhere they can’t find you. Even though you are outside, and there’s hardly a soul around, the strong fist of claustrophobia grabs you by the neck. You wheeze for the first time in over seventy years and stop to catch your breath.

Perhaps staying really isn’t such a bad idea. Even if SHIELD’s motives are sketchy, you could do some good here.

It sounds noble, but it feels all wrong. As you make your way back, you realize how trapped you feel. Claustrophobia turns into anger, and then exasperation.

By the time you make it back to your room, you want to punch a wall. You take a long hot shower instead.

After the shower, you only feel a little bit better. Sitting on the bed thinking, you realize you don’t feel like going into SHIELD today but you still don’t have a plan for leaving. Frustration gives way to anger and restlessness. You curse yourself for being so useless and start to pace.

The suite’s telephone rings, startling you. It’s the stuck up concierge. He informs you there’s a guest here to see you.

Amanda always texts so when you answer the door, you’re expecting something bad. But she’s smiling and there’s a manila envelope in her hand.

“Good morning! Here you go,” she says, holding it out to you.

“Thanks.” You move to the side so she can come in.

She waves you on impatiently, practically vibrating with anticipation.

You open the flap of the envelope and reach inside and pull out your new government issued ID. It looks the same as the one you took right after the serum, only sleeker and more colorful. There’s a small square white envelope with your name on it, a longer white envelope, two plastic bank cards, and a checkbook inside.

“You’re all set,” Amanda says. “You’re with Bank of America and you have two accounts, a checking and savings. Now if you want to take the motorcycle test, I can get that set up for you this week.”

“What’s this?” you ask, holding up the smaller white envelope.

“Oh,” Amanda says. “Ms. Carter asked me to give you that when she signed over your account. She said that it’s to be opened in private.”

You smile, strangely giddy that Peggy took the time to send a message, even now.

“And this?” You hold up the long white envelope.

“Um,” Amanda’s eyes shift and she starts backing up. “That’s from me. Also to be read in private. Listen, I’ve gotta get going. You should look through everything in there and make sure you have everything you need. Text me if you have any questions.” She pulls out a cheap looking black phone from her purse.

Your eyes fly up to meet hers. “Is it a burner?”

She forces a stiff smile as she continues to back up. She’s at the door now and opening it. “I’ll give you a call later, OK?”

“Alright,” you say in bewilderment. “Thank you for everything, Amanda. You’ve been extremely helpful.”

She finally pauses then and gives you a genuine smile. “That’s what I’m here for, Steve. You have my number. Use it, wherever you are.”

It feels too real. What she’s implying. Like everything you two have been discussing has led up to this moment. But that can’t be right. You don’t have a plan. You’re not ready.

“It’s been a pleasure working with you, Captain.”

And then she’s gone. As the door clicks shut, you put down the manila envelope and pull out the envelope from Peggy. It is written in her pretty cursive writing and already your heart is beating a little faster.

Inside is a small card with wild daisies splashed over the cover. Inside, there are just two sentences:

_What are you waiting for?_

_Make like a tree._

You hang your head and laugh softly.

Peggy totally pulled your card, as she always does.

You’re scared. You can see that now. But you’ve been scared before and it has rarely stopped you. The only thing you’ve ever been truly terrified of is telling Bucky how you felt about him and losing him as a result. So you never told him. And you lost him anyway.

You don’t want to be here, in this stuffy hotel, waiting for new orders from an organization you don’t recognize that may or may not be doing the business of protecting people.

When you woke up SHIELD pulled out all the stops and staged a retro hospital scene to convince you to stay and work for them. But they didn’t even care enough about you to get their lie straight and that was just a small little white lie they messed up. What about the bigger ones they construct?

If Bucky were here, he’d tell you to get the hell out of here and go back home. But Bucky’s dead and you don’t have a home anymore. Still, you’ve always been a disagreeable punk, too stubborn to back down from a challenge. Walking away from Captain America may be the biggest challenge you’ve ever faced, but you think maybe you’re up to it.

You pull out the longer white envelope and open it. There’s another set of IDs, a passport, and bank cards that belong to a guy named Michael O’Connor, which is as Irish as it comes. You shake your head and laugh because Michael O’Connor has your face and you remember how your mother used to say she almost married a boy named Sean O’Connor from the old country, but then your dad came along and the rest is history. You’ve never told anyone but Bucky that story, so the fact that Amanda chose that name makes you feel a little lucky. Something shifts in the envelope and you pull it out. It is a key. There’s a yellow sticky note inside.

P.O. Box 2345  
Lincoln, Nebraska

Remember what I told you.

You cover your mouth as it sinks in that this is really happening.

After putting all of the contents of the manila envelope back, you walk over to the closet and stare at your shield encased in black leather resting against the back wall. You unzip the case and pull the shield out. Run your hand over it and close your eyes. Taking it is not an option. You don’t deserve to keep it if you’re abandoning your post. A brief moment of conflict grips you until you remember that in the hands of SHIELD, you won’t ever really know what your post is or why you’re fighting.

You zip the case back up and text Amanda to tell her that you’ve left it behind and that it should be picked up. You grab a change of clothing, a toothbrush, and the manila envelope and stuff it into the duffel bag you came in with, and walk out.

The Bank of America is two blocks down. You go there and fill out a withdrawal slip for $9,999.00. The blonde teller is young and her eyes linger on your face while you hand her your ID and the withdrawal slip. She reads the slip, looks back at you, examines the ID again, and you think this is it. She’s going to make a scene and alert the authorities.

“Would you like your bills large or small, Mr. Rogers?”

“Small please,” you say, trying to keep the surprise out of your voice.

She nods and starts sorting out the cash. There’s a machine she uses to count it out, and then she puts it in small white envelopes.

“Thank you, Mr. Rogers.”

You nod, suspicious. Did she recognize you at all?

It is better to assume the worst. You look right at the camera as you walk out and then head to the nearest DC tourist shop around the corner to make three purchases - a plain blue baseball hat with a tiny capitol building patch on the side, a grey and blue sweatshirt and a pair of reading glasses. You put them all on in the shop while the elderly woman behind the counter raises her eyebrows.

You flag down a taxi to Union Square. It’d be really nice to take a train or even a plane to where you want to go, but the level of surveillance in train stations and airports is too dangerous. Amanda has drilled it in your head that the safest way to hide is living like a true transient.

There’s a Megabus going to Lincoln, Nebraska in ten minutes. You give the attendant $30 and get your ticket and keep your head down as you wait in line.

The cell phone Fury gave you starts vibrating in your back pocket. It tickles. You forgot all about it. You curse under your breath because you’re a dumbass. You should have thrown it in the trash before you left the hotel. Amanda is mostly convinced there’s a tracking device in it.

You pull it out of your pocket, and look for a place to throw it but there’s a message on the screen.

It’s from Fury and it’s flagged in red.

_Captain, need you to come in. It’s very important. There’s a jet to New York leaving within an hour. Coulson will meet you. Sending a driver to pick you up now._

Fury must think you’re an idiot. It can’t be a coincidence that less than a half an hour after you withdrew nearly ten-thousand dollars and purchased a one way ticket out of town SHIELD needs you to report in.

Amanda warned you, hell, Peggy did too. SHIELD will do whatever they can to rope you back in.

It hardens your resolve. You look around and see a park less than a quarter of a mile down the block. You take off running, weaving through traffic and pedestrians.

There’s a lot of grass, and in the center a huge stone fountain surrounded by a reflecting pool. You look at the phone one last time. Fury has sent two more messages, and there’s a third one from Coulson.

You squeeze and squeeze until you hear something crack and then you fling it across the reflecting pool with the same technique Bucky taught you for skipping rocks. The cell phone doesn’t skip.

You turn your back on the pool and run back towards the Megabus and an unknown path.

*

The bus seats are uncomfortable, but you’ve been traveling for almost 16 hours and you’re growing used to it. You’ve tried to watch a free cartoon called ‘How to Train Your Dragon’ several times, but your mind keeps drifting back to SHIELD, what you’re going to do next, your promise to Peggy, and what Bucky would think about all of this.

You try to push down the guilt and nagging worry that perhaps for once Fury is telling the truth and needs you for something important. But the problem is what’s important to Fury is a mystery, and you can’t trust it.

The middle-aged Asian woman next to you is completely knocked out. It is impossible not to envy her. You stare at her for a moment and then try to imitate her pose. You push your seat back and close your eyes, hoping her peace is contagious.

It works. You drift off and for a little while sleep is a black void of nothingness. No dreams, no nightmares, no anxiety. But then you’re being jostled and someone is screaming. Another person is sobbing.

Your eyes snap open and the woman beside you is bent over and gasping through her hand, her eyes glued to the phone in her lap. You look past her and see everyone is doing the same thing or gathered around someone else’s phone.

“What’s happening?” you ask.

When the woman looks up, tears are streaming over her hand and her eyes are full of terror.

“They’re attacking us.”

“Who?” you demand, leaning over to look at the phone in her lap.

On the screen there are strange creatures streaming out of the sky and below people are running and screaming as the buildings around them fall. You stare in disbelief as large white block letters appear underneath that read:

_ALIENS ATTACK NEW YORK_


	4. Like a Rolling Stone

Your first inclination is to tell the bus driver to stop the bus. You don’t care that New York City is almost one thousand miles and seventeen hours behind you. You can run fast, faster than some cars even. And what you can’t do on your feet, you can finish on a motorcycle.

As you stand up, you realize how stupid that would be. The attack is happening now. When you show up a day later without your shield, you’ll probably be too late. Probably. Maybe not though. You furiously debate all sides of it as the bus rolls on. 

The news anchor is asking a disheveled looking man about the attack. The man claims he’s a former SHIELD scientist who saw an alien man with giant golden horns hypnotize his coworkers with some kind of scepter weapon. He says his coworkers' eyes turned an unnatural blue and he repeated the order to attack others. He says watched the whole thing through a crack in the storage closet. 

“Sir, are you saying that employees of SHIELD colluded with an alien to open a...what did you call it? An intergalactic space portal over Manhattan?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” the scientist says. “This is no accident. SHIELD is dealing in things that are not from this world and they’ve been doing it for years, before I was even hired. I tried to get out, I did, but no one leaves SHIELD. They won't let you.”

The woman beside you looks up. “Our own government. You can’t trust anyone.”

Your guilt and restlessness transforms into anger. Being right never felt so terrible. 

Even if you could find a way back to New York right now, you have no way of knowing if it is a part of some grand plan designed by SHIELD. It could be just the start of something they’ve had cooking up. Your stomach turns as you think of Fury’s and Coulson’s calls. They wanted you there even though SHIELD had a hand in starting this. 

You fall back against the seat, and stare out the window. Your enhanced hearing picks up the quiet sniffles of someone crying in the back. 

The bus lights shine on a large green highway sign that says Lincoln is eighty miles away. You don’t know what’s waiting for you in Lincoln, Nebraska or if you’ll even spend the night there. All you know is that wherever you do end up, you will search for something better to fight for, an underdog. You may be on the run, but you’re not dead and to your knowledge they haven’t even figured out you’ve left D.C. yet. 

*

You wake up to small hands flailing over you. Instinct kicks in and you draw back, forgetting your 6’2 240lb frame has nowhere to go. Your shoulder slams against the window bar but the pain barely registers. Your mind is a jumble of fading news alerts, bomb sirens, and Bucky’s last scream.

There’s a woman beside you. Oh right. She’s been beside you this whole time. Mostly talking to her phone or at it. But now she’s staring at you. Her eyes are full of concern and her hands are hovering just above your bicep like she really wants to comfort you but doesn’t trust you not to snap.

“You were thrashing about,” she says gently, like one talking to a frightened child. “You kept saying ‘Bucky, Bucky’.”

Your face turns hot and you lower your eyes as shame washes over you. So much for being incognito. Instead of blending in, you shout out the name of your well-documented and dead best friend on a bus full of people with smartphones.

Way to go, genius.

Before you can self-flagellate any more, a small hand lands on your shoulder. You stiffen but the woman next to you has sympathetic eyes. “It’s OK. You served… in the military, right?”

Air leaves your lungs and you stare at her like a deer caught in the headlights.

She pats your hand and looks at you with warmth and understanding. And when she leans in to talk to you, her whisper is conspiratorial and soothing.

“My husband was a Marine… Vietnam. That’s how we met. He used to have nightmares. Bad ones. I have them too and I’ve never picked up a gun. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. War is… terrible. We’re not built for it. But you survived and that is very good.”

You nod slowly, wanting to close your eyes. The care and thoughtfulness in her eyes and her voice reminds you of your mother. You aren’t even aware you’ve leaned into her until you’re too close.

It is stupid and completely inappropriate but when you begin to draw back her hand slides from your shoulder to cradle your head. Something loosens inside of you then and the perfectly coiled spring of stoicism you carry with you begins to unravel. You let your head fall, rest it on her shoulder. She begins to hum some lullaby you never heard, but it is soothing all the same. Your frantic heart starts to slow and the jumble of noise in your head grows quiet.

“Did you lose your friend over there?”

The question cuts unexpectedly like an unlikely bite from a butter knife. A strange wetness creeps into the corners of your eyes.

“Yeah,” you croak out.

She inhales deeply and presses her head against yours. The faint scent of cloyingly sweet perfume drifts into your nostrils.

“I’m sorry,” she says. 

“It’s alright,” you say numbly because that’s what you always say whenever anyone ever says sorry about Bucky. There’s no socially acceptable way of saying ‘thanks, but your apologies only emphasize how dead and gone he is’.

“Chocolate?” she asks.

And that sounds good. You haven’t eaten for a while.

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

“Such a gentleman,” she beams and bends over to retrieve a large black bag she’s stowed underneath the seat.

You watch her dig into it for a few moments. She pulls out a giant Hershey’s bar and hands it to you. It is slightly soft but you really are starving and your mouth is already watering.

“What branch?” she asks.

You look at her for a moment, trying to think of a lie, but you were never good at lying and your instinct tells you this woman is kind and a very low threat. 

“Army.”

“That’s good. Not as good as the Marines, but still respectable,” she says with a playful wink.

That pulls a genuine chuckle out of you. You take a bite of the Hershey’s bar. It is really sweet. Sweeter than the chocolate you used to barter your art for. You let it melt on your tongue and hum. 

The woman pats your hand then. “My husband always felt better after a bit of chocolate and a swig of whiskey. Well perhaps more than a swig…”

You share a smile and she squeezes your hand. “My name is Hoa, but my friends call me Tammy.”

“Nice to meet you Tammy, my name is Steve.”

She covers her mouth and giggles. You raise a questioning eyebrow. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” she waves dismissively. “It’s just that… when I first saw you, I thought, ‘he looks just like Captain America!’ You probably don’t know who that is; he was a bit before your time. But you sure do look a lot like him.”

You almost choke on the chocolate in your mouth. “Actually, I’ve heard that before.”

*

The bus gets into Lincoln around 9pm. The air inside the bus is heavy and stale with the musk of stress and nervous energy. The line to get out is buzzing with impatience. People glance at their phones and each other every few moments, waiting their turn to climb out of the prison of row seats and into the aisle. 

You take a deep whiff of the open air when your foot hits the ground. 

“You take care of yourself,” Tammy says, patting your arm gently. 

“You too, Tammy. Thanks for everything.”

She reaches up and pinches your cheek. “No, thank you. It’s not every day I get to snuggle up to a handsome veteran.”

You duck your head to hide a smile and then watch her walk away. 

As the passengers clear out, the noise dies down and the full weight of what you’ve done and what it means sinks in. There’s no going back now. 

“Hello, do you have any change?” a pale and gaunt bedraggled man asks everyone who passes him. His hand shakes as he lifts up a weathered paper cup. 

Now that the passengers have dispersed or been picked up by their rides, you take notice of who is left. There’s a group of men on the edges of the bus depot, clouds of smoke rise and hovers around them as they puff on their cigarettes. They all have beards, long or dyed hair, tattoos, and/or piercings. Even with a baseball cap, you stick out like a sore thumb. The longer you stand around, the more likely someone will remember your clean-shaven face and large build. 

You keep your hat low and your chin tucked as you assess the Motel 6 across the four-lane road. It is really close to the bus station. Amanda would probably say it is too close to serve as cover. But you’re bone tired and the thought of climbing into a bed, any bed, is very appealing. 

“Hello, do you have any change?” the man asks again. People keep passing him like he’s invisible. It’s not right.

You pull out your wallet to retrieve a $10 bill when you hear “Get the fuck outta my face you lazy piece of shit!”

Everything grinds to a halt as your eyes snap up. There’s a red-faced twenty-something guy with long black hair snarling at the homeless man. 

“Why don’t you take a bath and stop asking for handouts. Everyone knows you’re drinking it. You stink of booze.”

The homeless man doesn’t move, his cup still raised, shakes in his unsteady hand. “Do you have any change?” he says again like it is his only way of communicating. 

“Ask me that again and I’m gonna stick that cup so far up your ass you’ll cough up change!” the jerk threatens. He’s coming dangerously close to head-butting the homeless man.

Clenching the $10 dollar bill in your fist, you take quick decisive strides towards both of them. 

“Get away from him!” another man shouts, reaching the men at the same time you do. This fella has shoulder length blonde hair and both of his well defined arms are covered in gorgeous tattoos. 

“Is there a problem here?” you ask the trouble maker. The rude jerk is a good four inches shorter than you. 

“Yeah, this lazy fuck is harassing people. I told him I didn’t have any change and he kept begging,” the jerk explains as if his reaction was completely reasonable.

“He’s not bothering anyone,” Tattooed Guy says. “If you don’t have any change, all you have to do is just walk away. There’s plenty of space here.”

“I shouldn’t have to move around him,” the jerk says, crossing his arms over his chest. “He shouldn’t be loitering and asking for handouts.”

“And _you_ shouldn’t be threatening people,” you say with an unwavering glare.

The jerk gives you a once over and suddenly his eyes drop. He mutters something about ‘assholes’ but he is walking away when he says it. You watch him, making sure he’s really leaving. When he disappears inside of the bus station, you turn to the homeless man.

“Are you alright?” you ask.

“Do you have any change?” the homeless man asks again calmly, as if nothing happened. 

You and the Tattoo Guy exchange a glance and put bills into his cup.

“Thank you,” the man says.

You give him a small nod and turn in the direction of the motel.

“Hey! Hey!”

You look over your shoulder and see Tattoo Guy jogging up to you.

“You need a ride somewhere?” he asks a little out of breath. 

“No,” you say quickly. 

Getting into a stranger’s car means more lying and involving them in your evasion. Besides you don’t even have anywhere in particular to go right now.

Tattoo Guy narrows his eyes and wags his forefinger, and that’s when you notice he has the word ‘HOPE’ tattooed across left knuckles. “I can spot a drifter a mile off. Let me guess - you’re trying to keep a low profile, ‘cause you’re hiding from something. But you’re not a fan of running from things.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you grit out, your heart hammering in your chest because holy shit that was more than a good guess.

Tattoo Guy sighs. “No offense, but you look lost. I can tell you’re not from around here and you don’t know anyone from around here either. If you did, you’d be on the phone with them or they’d already be here to pick you up. If you need a place to stay, I can put you up.”

“Why would you do that?” you ask in disbelief.

Tattoo Guy rolls his eyes. “Relax... I manage a hostel. That’s why I’m here. I just dropped off a kid who’s been staying with us until he could get on his feet. So that means we have a vacancy. If you need a bed, it’s yours. It’s not fancy, but I can guarantee you it beats that roach infested motel you’re thinking about.”

You glance over at the Motel 6 with the missing ‘o’ and deserted parking lot. Suddenly it doesn’t look so appealing.

“I promise I’m not a serial killer,” Tattoo Guy says, raising his right hand. “Besides you’re big enough to kick my ass.”

You cock your head, giving him a once over. “Yeah, I am.”

Tattoo Guy laughs. It’s warm and reminds you of sunshine and Bucky’s eyes when he used to laugh. You can feel the tension in your shoulders melting. 

“Well I’m glad we agree on that,” Tattoo Guy says. “What’s your name? Mine is Zeek.”

“Hi Zeek, I’m Michael.” It almost rolls off your tongue. You give yourself a mental pat on the back.

“Nice to meet you, Michael. My van is over there,” he says, motioning with his head. He turns to lead you over there but old-fashioned common sense and perhaps a little of your stubbornness keeps you from following.

He stops and turns to look at you. “Problem?”

“What’s in it for you?” you ask.

Zeek doesn’t get angry or frustrated. He just walks back up to you to look you in the eyes. “Honestly? Money. We have a mortgage to keep up. Also it’s always nice to have a big protective dude hanging around. And I charge half of what you’d pay over there.”

“Who is ‘us’?” you ask suspiciously.

“The family. We all chip in.”

A family. You like the sound of that. Then again, if SHIELD comes looking for you, that’s more people entangled in your mess. 

You gnaw at the inside of your mouth and glance back at the motel. Zeek stands by calmly, waiting for you to make up your mind. This entire time your ‘bad person’ radar has remained completely silent. There’s also something achingly familiar about Zeek’s kindness and patience that you don’t want to examine right now.

Perhaps one night won’t hurt. Besides it’s probably a cleaner and cheaper room, and staying at a family hostel will give you better cover until you figure out your next move.

“OK.”

Zeek leads you to a well used blue mini-van. The inside of it smells like pineapples.

As he pulls out onto the road, you realize you’re bracing yourself for a barrage of questions you can’t answer. 

“Lincoln’s pretty chill,” he says. “We have some assholes like that guy back there, but there are some good folks here too.”

“Oh yeah?” 

“I mean, you’re looking at one of them,” he says with a cheeky grin.

That pulls an unexpected laugh out of you. Once again, you find yourself relaxing. 

“Are you from Lincoln?” you ask, mentally scolding yourself as soon as it leaves your mouth. Of course that’s going to prompt him to ask you the same thing.

“Actually, I grew up in Red Hook. It’s a neighborhood in Brooklyn.”

You do a double take, caught off guard. 

Zeek looks at you with a quizzical expression. “What? You know Brooklyn?”

“Uh, yeah, actually. I’m from Brooklyn Heights,” you admit because fuck it. You’re tired of playing this cover operative game and Zeek seems like a very low threat.

He whistles. “Damn, that’s fancy.”

You frown. Fancy doesn’t match your memories of run down tenement apartments and sewage in the streets. But you’ve been frozen for seventy years. Maybe things are different now. 

“If you say so.”

“You like music?” Zeek asks.

“Sure.”

“If you have a preference, let me know now. I’m a classic rock kind of guy.”

“That’s fine,” you say, still amused by the term ‘classic rock’. It is all new to you.

You sit back as he turns on the radio and wait for the aggressive guitar sound SHIELD’s reacclimation course taught you to associate with rock music. But the soft melodic music filling up the van is from a piano. Sounds nice until the singing starts. The man’s voice is harsh and loud. It's almost like he’s shouting. He says he’s a dreamer on the run, far away from home. Just one more night and he’s coming off this long and winding road. He’s on his way, home sweet home. He keeps repeating that last line, and every time he does it punches you in the gut. Your eyes start to sting and you have to look out the window.

“I fucking hate this song,” Zeek mutters, quickly changing the channel until it lands on something uptempo, syncopated and so artificial it sounds like it was created on a computer.

You clear your throat and run a hand over your face to feign like you’re tired so he can’t see you’re trying to dry your eyes.

“Sorry,” Zeek says. You’re about to tell him you don’t need his pity when he says “Didn’t mean to change the station like that, but I have issues with songs about home. Must be the foster kid in me.”

Finally, you turn your head to look at him. “It’s alright,” you say. “I get it.”

“That’s why I love the hostel,” he says. “We try to make people who maybe are a little lost feel at home, even if it’s for a little while, you know?”

“How did you get into that?”

“Long story, but basically I was running, kinda like you are, I was way younger though. Started getting into trouble. Spent a few years in juvie. Got out, and got right back to doing dumb shit again. One day I fucked with the wrong people, almost got myself killed when this dude named Floyd stepped in and saved my ass. He gave me a one time only chance to work for him and get my shit together. Five years later, I’m a legitimate tattoo artist and part-time hostel manager.”

“Wow. That’s really great,” you say, looking at Zeek again with a newfound respect. “I admire people who can turn a bad situation around.”

Zeek shrugs. “Like I said, I had help. You’ll meet Floyd tomorrow, if you decide to stick around.”

You nod. 

‘So I probably should warn you before we get there,” Zeek says hesitantly.

“I knew there was a catch,” you say, staring at him fully now.

“No, it’s not anything bad, just… you should know we’re a little hippy. At least that’s what the rest of the town calls us.”

“Hippy?” you repeat because you don’t completely understand that reference. You know it’s associated with the 1960’s but it could mean drugs, anti-war protesters, or just a bunch of people who don’t like to cut their hair. 

Zeek huffs. “Lincoln likes to pretend it’s progressive, but this is still the midwest. There’s a lot of backwards hicks who don’t approve of our politics.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for one, we believe in protecting the earth. We have a community garden and we eat everything from it. Sometimes we sell our stuff in the town’s farmer’s market. It’s pretty cool, but we get a lot of shit from the city council about zoning and taxes. They keep trying to pressure Floyd to sell it. They also don’t think much of our LGBT outreach. We host a lot of meetings at the hostel, most of them aimed at young people, so according to some, we’re a bunch of tree hugging, immoral heathens corrupting the youth.”

You frown. “Do people harass you?”

Zeek shakes his head. “Not really. I mean, we’ve had a couple of incidents, but mostly people just steer clear. People either treat us like we’re invisible or piranhas.”

You hum. “Would you believe me if I told you I can relate to both?”

“You know I kinda got that vibe from you,” Zeek says. “But I wasn’t sure because of the way you look.”

You scrunch up your nose. “How do I look?”

Zeek gives a little shrug. “I don’t know, sorta look like one of those judgmental pricks. I think it’s that clean cut square jaw line and preppy haircut you’re hiding under that cap.”

“Preppy?” What does that even mean? You’re hesitant to ask. “You sound pretty judgmental yourself.”

“I guess that’s fair,” Zeek admits. “But come on, man, your hairline in the back is cleaner than most military cuts, and we see a lot of military cuts. The National Air Guard is based here.”

Shit. That’s not good. 

The van slows down and Zeeks makes a right turn onto a dirt side road. There’s nothing out here but trees and land. In the pitch black dark it looks completely isolated. It would be the perfect place for a robbery or murder. 

You look over. 

Zeek immediately locks eyes with you and laughs. “Dude, there’s a house at the end of this road, I swear to God.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, giving him a warning glance.

Zeek shakes his head, still smiling. 

Within seconds, a large farmhouse comes into view. Every light is on and you can see the outlines of silhouettes hanging off the front porch. 

The road turns narrow and rocky and leads right up to a walkway in front of the porch. 

“Um, so... as you can see we’re having a little party,” Zeek says with a nervous laugh. 

You take in all of the people on the porch and the moving shadows in the windows and wonder if Zeek would get mad if you asked him to take you back to the Motel 6.

“Don’t worry,” Zeek tries to reassure. “It’s no big deal, just some cake and punch to celebrate.”

“What’s the occasion?” you ask stiffly.

Zeek squints like he’s trying to figure out if you’re being serious. “New York… you know, the superheroes who saved the world from an alien attack.”

“Oh.” Your stomach drops.

“Man they kicked so much ass, it almost makes me want to fly an American flag. _Almost_.”

“Yeah, it’s good they were there,” you say even as you feel yourself deflating. 

Zeek’s frowns as he looks back at you. “You alright? If parties aren’t your thing, I can sneak you in through the back.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” you reassure him even as the memory of a dozen awkward double dates with Bucky resurfaces. 

Those dates always played out the same way - you drinking punch in a corner while your date found another fella to dance with. Bucky would always take a break from dancing to take a seat beside you. He’d spend the rest of the night making you laugh and pissing off his date. Even when you two were overseas at war and the Howlies tried to drag you to a crowded bar, Bucky would always be there by your side, a steady anchor to ground against the overwhelming waves of social presentation. 

“Actually, I am pretty tired,” you say. “I didn’t get much sleep on the bus.”

“Of course, man. Those bus rides are so uncomfortable,” Zeek is quick to say. “I’ll take you through the back so we only have to pass a few people.”

He climbs out of the van, and you follow him. 

“Zeek!” someone calls from the porch. 

Several other people repeat Zeek’s name as well. You scan the crowd hanging off the porch and feel tension creeping back into your shoulders.

Under the light of the porch, you can see most of them are your age, your physical age at least. There’s a lot of tattoos, piercings, and brightly dyed hair. Suddenly you’re aware of how ‘preppy’ you must appear to them. 

“Yo, Raymond, wassup?” Zeek calls back. “Please tell me there’s cake left.”

A black man with a tawny complexion and braids close to his scalp grins and holds up both hands. “What do I look like? Have I ever let you down?”

“Uh, yeah, you have,” Zeek replies. There’s answering laughter from many on the porch.

“Who’s the new guy?” a curvy redhead girl with curly hair asks. “He’s hot!”

“Michelle, this here is Michael, and he’s a new _guest_. And what’s our guest policy?”

“Treat everyone with respect,” Michelle sings with exasperation.

“There ya go,” Zeek says.

“Sorry, my bad. Nice to meet you, Michael. We have cake if you want some,” Michelle says, biting her lip suggestively. The way she’s angling her body really shows off her curves. 

“Uh, thanks,” you manage, averting your eyes from her quickly.

“Down girl,” someone says.

“Welcome to the den of heathens,” says a short chubby tan guy with spiky black hair and eyes that remind you vaguely of a much younger and more handsome version of Morita. He has a huge red and black dragon circling his forearm “My name is Kyle, and this is Raymond and this is Blanca.” He points to a huge snow white cat perched on the porch railing.

“Nice to meet you all,” you say.

They have all stopped talking to gather close to the edge of the porch and peer down at you. 

Even though your eyes are mostly hidden beneath the baseball cap and the reach of the porch light doesn’t quite touch the spot you’re standing, you feel like you’re being inspected.

It’s a lot.

Suddenly you’re hyper aware that not only do you look different but you also have the most straight laced Christian name. You are not blending in at all, but it is too late to back out now.

“OK guys,” Zeek says. “We can do a meet and greet with Michael tomorrow. He’s tired and I gotta check him in.”

They nod and wave at you as they say goodnight .

You breathe a sigh of relief and continue to follow Zeek through a back door with a mesh screen. 

Inside, the house is a lot more spacious than it appears on the outside. You follow Zeek down a long hallway where a dozen or more coats are hanging next to a stack of bicycles and skateboards. The hallway leads into a large kitchen with wall to wall wooden cupboards. There are violets on the window sill, just above the sink, and in the middle of the room there’s a big oak dining table. On the edge of it, sits a stack of boxes that reads ‘Ramos Pizza’. The smell drifting from those boxes makes you swoon a little.

“Go on, take some,” Zeek motions his head towards the pizza. “Seriously, you’ll regret it if you don’t. Food doesn’t last long around here.”

Modesty is no match for your appetite. Ever since Amanda introduced you to supreme pizza you’ve been in love. You adjust the duffel bag higher on your shoulder, grab a paper plate, and take three slices. 

Zeek does the same, only he starts eating his slices right there. When he begins to talk again, his mouth is still full. It’s disgusting but disarming. You find yourself smiling a little as you watch him. 

“So usually, there’s this whole check-in process. But we can skip that for now. I trust you’re not gonna take off in the middle of the night or damage any furniture.”

“Well, that depends….”

Zeek pauses eating to look at you in surprise. “On what?”

“How small are your beds?”

Zeek chuckles. “Don’t worry, big guy, we got a room and a bed just right for you. Follow me.”

He takes you through the kitchen to another large room. It is full of warm rich colors, dark wood, and the walls are lined with books and knick knacks. If you weren’t so tired, you’d want to stay here, sit in one of the big chairs and pull down a book to read. Voices and laughter drift in from the other side of the room. 

“Zeek!” someone called from over there.

You inhale and brace yourself for another round of introductions and inspection.

As you enter you notice several things at once. There are even more people here than there were on the porch, and they’re all gathered around a large screen television. They’re laughing and talking but every few seconds they pause to stare at the screen. 

“Sai! Wassup, man” Zeek says. A tall brown kid with large black holes in his ears stands up to give Zeek a weird handshake that takes a lot longer than you’ve ever seen a handshake take. 

“Ooooh!” several people roar in unison as they stare at the large screen in front of them. 

You were hoping that perhaps this place could be a safe reprieve from the outside world. That perhaps the specter of the war you didn’t fight wouldn’t follow you here. You realize now that it was a silly fantasy. 

The news anchor’s voice is firm and loud, and you have to watch with the rest of the room as he talks about SHIELD’s Avenger Initiative and the way they saved New York City. There’s a lot of speculation and debate about who exactly is an Avenger. The video footage is grainy and shaky but a guest commentator says he counts at least five definite members - a huge green creature, a man with a red cape, a redheaded woman in a skin tight catsuit, a man with a bow and arrow, and Tony Stark. 

Since they don’t know any of the others by name, they focus on the only Avenger they know for sure. A large photograph of Howard Stark’s son, Tony, goes up. You recognize it from the 21st century tutorials SHIELD installed on your laptop. It still amazes you how much Tony looks like his father. 

The news anchor refers to him as ‘Iron Man’ while the video footage of Tony flying up into the giant hole in the sky plays on a loop. The first time it plays, you hold your breath. It feels like Tony is gone forever, then the dark sky turns orange with fire and spits him back out. He looks more like a missile than a man as he falls to the ground. No ordinary human should be able to survive that kind of crash. But Tony does. 

The room erupts into cheers each time that moment plays and you’re surprised at how much pride you feel on Tony’s behalf. Of course Howard Stark’s son designed a suit that could protect him from an intergalactic drop. Of course.

Then the guilt comes. It floods you fast and hard like a tidal wave. You should have been there. Good men and women fought and risked their lives to save the city, _your_ city, while you ran away like a yellow bellied---

“While the Avengers are being credited for saving the world, new questions are emerging about the federal agency known as the Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate, or SHIELD for short. Many are wondering what role SHIELD played in this attack and how much they are hiding when it comes to the security of the world. Don, many people have never heard of SHIELD until today. What can you tell us---”

“I told you man!” a young man with long curly brown hair says. “Fuck the feds! I bet you anything they started this shit. It’s probably some kind of trial run for something bigger.”

Zeek shakes his head. “Nah, you’re giving them too much credit. They don’t know their hand from their ass. I mean, they probably _did_ start it, but I don’t think they knew what they were messing with… as usual.”

The guilt in your chest subsides a little. It’s still there, but hearing the mistrust you felt voiced by others is oddly reassuring.

Zeek’s words provoke a lot of chatter about the government, other secrets and conspiracies. It’s hard to focus on just one conversation especially when they’re all talking over each other.

“Michael,” Zeek says, pulling your attention back from the room. “This way.”

You follow him out and up a set of stairs. There are more people up here, but they are fewer in number and quieter.

They nod at Zeek and eye you curiously as you pass. 

“This is your room,” Zeek says, opening a door on the right. 

He lets you walk past him to inspect the room. It is fairly large, larger than you were expecting. And the bed against the wall looks like it could sleep at least two people. There’s a strong scent of some kind of lemon cleaner and a faint hint of cigarette smoke hiding beneath it. It makes you wonder what stories this room would tell if it could speak. How many runaways and people who don’t want to be found have hid out here? 

There’s no television or radio and that suits you just fine. All you really want to do is lay down and rest your eyes.

“Bathroom’s to your right,” Zeek says.

You open the narrow door there and peek in. It’s all clean white tile with baby blue accents and accessories.

“So...what do you think?” Zeek asks, looking at you hopefully.

You close the bathroom door. “It’s perfect. Thank you. Should I pay now or---”

“Oh no,” Zeek waves you off. “There’s plenty of time for that. Go ahead and get settled. There’s fresh towels and toiletries in the wardrobe. If there’s something you need that’s not there, just ask and we’ll do our best to get it for you.”

There’s a deep sense of gratitude creating a lump in your throat. “Thank you, Zeek.”

“No problem. I’m glad you’re here,” Zeek says, his stare lingering in a way that makes your cheeks burn.

Finally, he seems to remember himself and pulls his eyes away, his face a little pinker. “Um, I guess I’ll go now,” he says as he backs away like he’s shy all of a sudden. 

It’s kind of funny and adorable and scary because Zeek is cute and you can’t even hold the thought of being with anyone other than Bucky or Peggy.

When Zeek shuts the door, you drop the duffel bag and plop down onto the bed with the pizza. The voices from the party are muffled now but you try to listen while you eat, just in case people are asking Zeek questions about you. 

No one is asking or talking about you though. You’re being paranoid. No one knows or cares who you are. At least you want to believe that because you’re sick of wearing this fucking baseball cap.

You yank it off and throw at the foot of the bed. It’s as liberating as taking off a mask. You run your hands over your sweaty hair, finish your pizza, and then lie down. 

It would be really nice to hear Amanda’s voice right now. She’d probably tease you about your poor choices as a fugitive and give you some good advice about what to do next. 

You turn your head and stare at your duffel bag on the floor, where the burner phone is packed. Calling Amanda would be stupid. It’s too soon. She’s probably being watched, especially now that she’s ‘lost’ you. Hell, she may even be in trouble. 

“Shit.” 

You’ll have to find a way to check in with her soon, to make sure she’s alright and to tell her you’re fine.

Taking a shower seems like a good diversion from overthinking the trouble you may have caused Amanda. You sit back up and eye the bathroom door, wondering if Zeek gave you a special room. You doubt every bedroom in the house has its own bathroom. Is Zeek treating you differently or was this room the only one left? 

It is hard to get up. You’re really tired. When you finally do get into the shower, you just stand there. As the hot water sinks into your skin, the weariness you felt before becomes heavier, sinking into your bones. You brace your hands against the tiles and rest your forehead against the wall as the steady stream of water from the shower head beats on your head. 

The water eventually turns cold, forcing you to get out. You dry off and change into some fresh underwear. When you stand up straight, your reflection looms in the large mirror. Even though you inherited your mother’s sensitive Irish skin, the red scratches and splotches you got from scrubbing with a cheap washcloth in hot water are already fading. 

Within a minute, there’s no evidence of any of it. You frown at your reflection, dragging your nails hard across your chest. The scratches form and then your skin heals itself.

Your thoughts turn to Tony Stark. You wonder if he’s hurt. Like really hurt. Does that suit of his protect him the way the serum protects you? Guilt resurfaces, swift and dangerous like a riptide. You turn away from your reflection, switch off the lights, and then make your way to the bed in the dark.

The sheets are cool and the mattress is hard, just the way you like it. Outside the voices become softer and sparser. You stare up at the ceiling, thinking of Tony Stark, what Howard would think of his son’s big heroic act, and the way you ran. You think about the Avengers and how you would have helped them. Maybe they didn’t need you. They fought well - without you. Nick Fury must be relieved and disappointed. 

The images from the television made a strange picture. Aliens pouring out of a dark open sky. On the ground though, things looked familiar. It looked like war always does, explosions and buildings falling, people running, and screaming. 

Suddenly you realize you’re not tired. You’ve been tired before, run down from battle. This is different. You’ve seen what land mines do to bodies, the way they take limbs and tear through skin and bones. All that’s left are unrecognizable chunks of what was once whole. That’s the way your insides feel now. 

Hot tears slip down your temples and into your hair and you can’t even be bothered with wiping them. You ruminate on the irony of the serum. How it made you stronger, faster, and able to heal quickly. Now you experience every nightmare in vivid color and you can feel the twisted remnants of war in every nerve ending. 

But this is what you signed up for. You did this. If Bucky were here, he’d probably smack you upside your head and say, “I fucking told you to stay in Brooklyn, but nooooo, you just had to be a hero.”

Even as the tears continue to fall, it makes you feel a little better to imagine his voice saying it. You remember his last joke. It was right before you both boarded that train.

And now he’s gone. That’s on you too. 

Your chest grows tight and you feel like you’re about to throw up, but it’s just a huge sob. You cover your mouth and clench your eyes shut as a wave of regret and loneliness overtakes you.

Falling apart goes on forever. You cry with every fiber of your being until there are no more tears. You wipe at your face and sniffle, hating the sound. So pitiful and pathetic. There’s no point in wallowing in self-pity or despairing. It won’t bring back Bucky or help you move on. 

And you have to move on. You’re still alive. You’re not supposed to be, but somehow you are. So pull your shit together.

You close your eyes, waiting for sleep to come and quiet your thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song on the radio is "Home Sweet Home" by Motley Crue.


	5. Midwestern Hospitality

You wake up to the sound of people talking loudly and the smell of bacon. Your stomach grumbles and you lick your lips. 

Quickly, you throw on your jeans and a fresh blue henley. The baseball cap is still at the foot of your bed. You look at it for a moment before deciding you better keep wearing it. You can’t get sloppy. In the back of your mind though you know the longer you stay, the more people are going to talk to you and look at your face and the baseball cap isn’t going to do much to hide anything. 

But for now, it provides some cover. 

As you leave your room, someone across the hallway opens their door. The cat, Blanca, slinks out and stalks its way up to you and then proceeds to circle around your leg. You smile and run a hand over Blanca’s soft fur and she begins to purr. 

“I think she likes you,” says the tall black fella from last night, Raymond. He gives you a head nod. “Michael, right?”

You nod. “And you’re Raymond.”

“Yup.”

The way he pops his ‘p’ is so familiar. Stop it. You’re doing it again. Push it out of your mind. Today’s a new day, you’re not allowed to wallow. That means stop looking for Bucky in every little thing. 

A bright laugh draws your attention to the stairs, and that’s when you remember someone is cooking bacon. 

“So is breakfast for everyone or….”

Raymond grins. “Oh yeah, anyone sleeping here is welcome to the food. We rotate who cooks. Today is Michelle’s turn and man, she can throw down.”

That sounds like slang for ‘cook well’, at least you hope that’s what it means because you’re really hungry. 

“Great,” you say, taking to the stairs. Blanca follows closely behind you. 

Even though you’re starving, you take your time walking to the kitchen, listening closely to gauge how many people are in there.

There’s multiple conversations going on and a lot of laughter. You try to mentally prepare for what will certainly be a very friendly interrogation.

“Michael!” Zeek calls from the table when you hit the doorway.

Everyone looks up. There’s a lot less people than you expected. Hardly anyone from the living room last night is here.

“Good morning,” you say, ducking your head a little.

“Michael, I made extra bacon, if you like that sort of thing,” Michelle says. “Help yourself.”

You don’t miss how she grins at you and gives you flirty eyes. You quickly pick up a plate to avoid eye contact.

“How’d you sleep?” Zeek asks.

“Pretty good, thanks,” you say stiffly, bracing yourself for a barrage of follow-up questions you can’t answer truthfully.

But Zeek just gives a simple nod and no one asks you anything else. They just resume talking and laughing. As you fill your plate with bacon and eggs, you wonder if Zeek told them to leave you alone or if they’re just waiting until you’re done eating. 

“You have any plans today?” Zeek asks as you take your first bite of bacon.

“Not really,” you say. 

“Wanna come to work with me?” he asks.

If no one was watching you before, they all are now. 

“You mean at the place where you do tattoos?” you ask.

Zeek grins. “Yeah. I thought you’d like to see what I do.”

“Uh… OK. Sure,” you say for a lack of any other response. You don’t have anywhere else to be right now. Perhaps you should be planning your next steps but Zeek is nice, and so far this place feels safe. 

Raymond comes down the stairs and reaches over you to grab a plate. Michelle smacks his hand.

“Ouch!”

“Manners! You know better than to reach over someone like that,” Michelle scolds.

“Get off my nuts, woman.”

“I’m gonna kick you in the nuts if you don’t watch it,” Michelle sasses back.

Zeek snickers. “And you know she will, man.”

“Whatever,” Raymond says, taking his seat. His plate is piled high and makes yours look modest. 

“You can have more, Michael. Don’t be shy,” Michelle says. 

“Ugh, Michelle, cool it,” says the stout man who called himself Kyle last night. “He may not even be into girls.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t even say anything,” Michelle protests with fake innocence.

“Hmm-hmm,” Raymond says, giving her a side eye glance.

“Well, are you?” Michelle asks, looking right at you.

“Excuse me?” you ask.

“Into girls?” she clarifies.

You nearly choke on your orange juice. “Um....”

“What about guys?” asks Kyle.

 _I’m in love with my best friend_ pops into your head. But that isn’t the sort of thing you share with strangers, you haven’t even been able to say it out loud to yourself. 

Zeek rescues you with a wave of his hand. “You guys have no chill. Seriously. Michael just got here. Can’t you just ask him a normal question like what are your hobbies? Do you play football?”

“That’s so boring,” Kyle says. “Zeek, sometimes you’re no fun. Besides, I was just playing… unless of course, Michael wants to answer the question.”

You rub the back of your neck. “Um, I guess you can say I like people.”

“Hmm...alright,” Kyle says, raising an eyebrow. “So like, you’re pan?”

You just stare at him.

“Well you’re not denying it. I can work with that,” he says with a wink.

You snort and Zeek groans. “Jesus.”

For the rest of breakfast, you eat and listen, picking up on the various personalities around the table. Raymond is funny and very frank, Kyle is irreverent and playful, Michelle is sassy and doesn’t hold back. Zeek acts like a big brother, watchful and careful to make sure everyone is heard and feels included. Blanca never stays in one place, slinking in between everyone’s chairs and looking up to see if she can get a bite, even though you can clearly see her cat food tray in the corner has been filled to the brim.

“Don’t let her use those kitty eyes on you,” Raymond warns. “No table food.”

“Sorry, Blanca,” you say, looking down at her. If you didn’t know better you’d swear that cat gave you a dirty look before resigning herself to her cat food.

By the time everyone finishes and begins to clear out, you feel even better about your decision to stay here. Maybe you’ll stay a few more nights. 

You volunteer to help with dishes, and that goes over really well. They pat you on the back and say ‘thank you, Michael’ until it is just you and Zeek left.

“Where are they all going?” you ask.

“Work. Oh there’s a bus stop at the end of the road, if you ever want to go into town when I’m not here.”

“Oh, that’s good,” you say, drying your last dish. “So are they guests too?”

Zeek grins. “No, they’re permanent residents. We have other people who come in and out, depending on their needs, but the people you ate breakfast with are always here.”

You wonder how many people they accommodate on average, and if they have some kind of screening method. You’re not going to ask that though.

“Listen,” Zeek says. “I know they can be a bit much. I’m sorry about all of the questions.”

“They’re fine,” you rush to say. “Actually I was expecting more questions, and people. Where’s everyone from last night?”

“Oh, most of those kids were from the young adults group. I told you that we do LGBTQ outreach, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well most of the people you met were in that group. We have two groups, one for teens and one for young adults over 18. Last night we had one of our clean and sober parties for both groups.”

“That’s...that’s great,” you say, a bit taken aback by this entire operation. “So hostel, outreach, and a garden?”

“For starters,” Zeek says. “We have our hands in a few other things as well. I’m gonna go clean up. I’ll be ready to leave in about ten.”

You nod, your mind buzzing with curiosity. Who are these people?

“Um, Michael,” Zeek says, pausing at the door. You turn around to look at him.“You don’t have to go with me if you don't want. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot in front of everyone. The idea just sorta popped into my head. Sometimes I speak before I think.”

“Actually, I’d like to go with you,” you say. “I’ve always been fascinated by body art.”

Zeek smiles. “Great. OK, meet ya at the van in ten.”

*

You can’t really lock your bedroom door from the outside. The thought of bringing your duffel bag with you crosses your mind. You know how that would look though. It’s not that you don’t trust the people in the house, but you just met them and everything you own right now is in that bag. Most of the $9,999.00 dollars you withdrew from the bank is stored in four envelopes tucked in the bag’s inner pocket. You take out $500 and put it in your wallet. You scan the room for a place to hide the rest, finally deciding on the dresser. You remove the bottom drawer and lay the envelopes in a neat row along the back of wood paneling, and then you put the drawer back on the rails and close it. That will have to do for now. You take your wallet and the burner phone, leaving behind your clothing.

In the sunlight, everything looks a little different. The house is sky blue like the accents in your bathroom and the paint on the frame siding looks fresh. The wrap around porch is white with a double swing, card table, and small grill. You walk down the side of the house and take a peek at the back. There’s a large white sign with red letters that reads “Family Garden” nailed to a wooden stake in the ground. The plot of land behind it is huge and clearly cared for. It is divided into sections by wood chips and logs. On the right there are a variety of spring flowers in bloom. The rest is divided into plants that look like herbs and vegetables like tomatoes and cabbage.

“So whatcha think?” Zeek asks from behind you.

“This is a garden?” you ask in amazement. “Seems more like a farm.”

Zeek laughs. “Yeah. It is getting pretty big now. Started off small though. All of this was Pawnee indigenous land before they were forced off. The last descendent left it all to Floyd, on one condition.”

“What was that?” you ask.

“He had to honor the land. So that’s what we do- we grow things. What we don’t eat, we sell or give to those in need, and then we plant the seeds from what we reap to start the cycle again.”

“That’s….amazing,” you say, genuinely impressed.

“You’re welcome to plant something if you like.”

You look at your hands. They’re clean but you still see the blood on them. “I’m actually not that good at keeping things alive.”

Zeek doesn’t respond and when you look back, he has a deep frown. “All it takes to keep something alive is a little love and attention. I can teach you.”

He’s staring again. The silence grows pregnant with things you don’t want to think about. You drop your eyes for lack of a response. 

Zeek clears his throat. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Oh, wait, I didn’t pay you for last night’s stay,” you say, reaching for your wallet.

Zeek waves his hands. “Don’t worry about it.”

You frown. “I don’t need charity….”

“Look, let me just cash you out when you leave. That’s easiest. I don’t really want to be asking you every day to pay up. That’s not my style.”

You consider it for a moment and then nod. “As long as you accept full payment for the entire stay, that should be fine.”

Zeek smiles. “Deal.”

The van looks different in the sunlight too. There’s rust near the bottom and the paint is fading in places.

As Zeek puts the car into drive, you take the opportunity to get a better look at your surroundings. Under the bright sun, the drive to hit the main road seems much shorter. When the van gets to the end of it, you see the bus stop Zeek was talking about.

A few minutes pass before you see another car or house. It really is isolated. And then all of a sudden it’s not. Zeek makes a right turn and you see the city. 

Lincoln is all large brick buildings and wide roads with lots of cars. Everything sort of blends into together and looks alike until Zeek starts to slow down. A black painted brick building up ahead sticks out on a street lined with traditional red brick and mortar businesses. Zeek parks the van in front of it. You stare at the blood red door and the matching trim. There’s a ‘We’re Open’ sign sitting in the window. 

Zeek motions towards the building with his thumb. “This is like my second home.”

As you get out of the van, you see a beautiful monogrammed iron ‘Floyd’s Tattoo & Piercings” sign hanging over the door. But what really draws your eye is the huge wall size graffiti skull painted on the side of the building. It is bone white, grinning, and resting on a bed of multi-colored flowers. There are bright red rose petals falling out of one eye socket. You gawk at it for several moments, entranced by the level of detail and beauty when the sound of a bell ringing draws your attention away. 

A burly red headed man about 6’4 and around 300 lbs has his hands on his hips. His arms are covered in tattoos. Some of them are words, others are cartoons. They’re all really nicely done if a bit random. 

“You’re late,” he says to Zeek. 

Zeek gives him a playful eye roll. “Like we ever get business this early.” 

“You’re pushing it, Zeek,” the burly man says. Suddenly he turns his head and looks right at you. 

“Who’s this?”

“A new friend. He’s staying at the house. Michael, this is Floyd. Floyd this is Michael.”

You hold out your hand, and Floyd takes it, his grip is solid. You give him a once over. He’s bigger than you. It is both jarring and strangely familiar. 

“Wow, you’re a big guy,” he says, looking you over.

“I was thinking the exact same thing about you,” you reply.

When he laughs, it reaches his blue eyes. 

Zeek clears his throat. “Floyd, um, do you mind if Michael hangs out while I work?”

Floyd raises his eyebrows at that. “First you show up late, and then you want to turn my place into a social club?”

You cringe and step back, shaking your head. “That’s alright. I don’t have to….I can go somewhere else.”

“No, wait,” Zeek says, putting a hand on your shoulder. “Floyd’s just joking.”

“Only a little,” Floyd says. “You know we’re short-staffed. Do you mind working?” he asks you. 

You frown. “I don’t… tattoo, or anything like that.”

“Well, I could also use some help keeping the place clean, unless that’s beneath you,” Floyd says, crossing his arms over his chest.

You’re distinctly aware of your chin jutting out in defiance. “I’m not afraid of cleaning.”

“You mind sweeping floors?” Floyd asks like it’s a dare.

“No,” you say quickly. “I’ve swept my fair share.”

“Getting coffee?” 

Now it just sounds like he’s upping the ante to rile you up. You hate that it’s working. You should just decline. You didn’t run from SHIELD to be this man’s errand boy. But that stubborn streak of yours won’t let you back down from the challenge.

“Sounds fun,” you say dryly. 

Floyd narrows his eyes. “Can you count money?”

“Sure. I passed arithmetic with high marks.”

“Arithmetic?” Floyd huffs out a laugh. “I haven’t heard that word in years.”

You shrug. “Old word or not, it still applies.”

Now Floyd is looking you over, his eyes stopping on your biceps. “I could also use a hand with security. We get a lot of clientele from out of town, sometimes they can be a little… rowdy. I need someone who can keep people in line without scaring them away. Think you could handle that?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” you say, straightening to emphasize your physique.

Floyd cocks his head. “What’s up with the baseball cap? Why do you have it down so low? Are you running from something?”

You gulp and consider just saying ‘thanks but never mind’ but he continues to talk.

“Now, don’t get nervous. I’m not gonna ask a bunch of nosy questions. Your business is none of my business unless your business attracts the wrong type of visitors and endangers my staff and clients or puts me on the wrong side of the law. You feel me?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I understand.”

Floyd narrows his eyes, and considers you for a long moment. You wait him out, ready for him to reject you. You don’t even know why you care, but you realize you do.

Finally a small smile breaks on that tough face of his. “OK, you’re hired,” he says, extending his hand. You shake it. “Payday is every Friday. Everything is under the table but I run a legit business. I can start you off at $10 an hour for 20 hours a week. If you work out, we can talk about a little more.”

“Sounds good,” you say. Floyd nods and then turns to go back inside. 

This feels like it’s happening really fast, but Zeek looks extremely pleased. There’s a smugness about it that makes you think he knows something. 

“Was this your plan all along?” you ask.

Zeek winces. “Sorta? I figured you didn’t have a job and needed a source of income. And Floyd is always short handed. He likes taking people under his wing if he thinks they need it.”

“I don’t need a pity job,” you say defensively.

Zeek sighs. “It’s not pity. This is what Floyds does. I told you how he helped me. He enjoys giving people a chance. That’s his thing. Someone took a chance on him and now he pays it forward. We all do that. Paying it forward is pretty much the family’s philosophy.”

“And Floyd’s a part of the family?” you ask.

“He started it all,” Zeek explains. “The hostel, the community garden, this tattoo shop. He’s like... dad to us.”

You stare up at the shop for a long moment, thinking it over. Long enough to make him squirm a little.

“Look I’m sorry, OK?” Zeek says to his feet. “I know you don’t want me meddling in your business. I was just trying to help. I guess I see a lot of myself in you. But if this isn’t your scene I’ll tell Floyd you changed your mind, and--”

“I’m in,” you say to stop his stammering. 

Zeek looks up, surprised. 

“But in the future,” you say. “If you have an idea that you think I might be interested in, just talk to me. No tricks.”

“Yeah, right, of course. No tricks,” Zeeks says.

You follow him inside and the scent of lavender nearly knocks you back. Suddenly you see Peggy laying in the nursing home bed, her eyes on you but her mind somewhere else. You try to tuck that memory back where it came from but it doesn’t leave so easy. 

There’s music playing, vibrant and uptempo. “Here I go again on my own’, the singer croons and you instantly recognize the hook from the pop culture acclimation series SHIELD put you through. 1987. Whitesnake. It is the same genre that Zeek likes. Classic rock. You actually enjoy catchy stuff like this. 

The walls are black just like the outside brick. Only here, they’re splashed with colorful paint and photographs. Every inch is filled with pictures of people of all types sporting their tattoos proudly. Though you’re drawn to the wall on the right. It’s full of plaques. There’s five that say _Voted #1 Tattoo & Piercing Shop in Lincoln_, one that says _Floyd Hoffman- 2008 Runner-up for Best Tattoo in the Midwest_ ; and certifications for an Alexandria Towson and David Zeik.

“So that’s how you spell it,” you murmur.

“Huh?” _Zeik_ asks from behind you.

“I thought your name was spelled differently,” you admit. “How come no one calls you David?”

“People usually call me David when they’re mad at me,” Zeik says with a chuckle.

Over to the left of the counter, there’s more open space and three chairs spaced apart, divided by long black tables. Floyd is sitting in a chair in the back corner, cleaning something. 

“Lexy, come out here,” Floyd calls, not looking up from his task.

A woman wearing a faded Harley Davidson T-shirt emerges from behind a black curtain in the back. She looks about forty something and has smooth olive skin that stands out because of her shaved head. There’s a cascade of piercings in each of her ears.

She stops to glare at Floyd, hands on her hips. “What is it? I am prepping for a customer.”

“Just wanted to introduce you to our new employee,” Floyd says giving a nod towards you. “Michael this here is Lexy. She’s one of the best piercers this side of the Mississippi.”

“Actually, I’m just the best,” she says smiling at you. “Nice to meet you, Michael.”

“Nice to meet you too,” you say.

She turns and sticks out her tongue at Floyd before disappearing back behind the curtain. 

“Zeik, show ‘em the ropes,” Floyd says. “I have to get ready for my 11:00.”

“Right,” Zeik claps his hands. “OK, Michael, let’s get you squared away with the register first, and then I’ll show you how to work our overpriced and complicated coffee maker.”

For the next four hours there’s a steady stream of customers. More than you expect for a tattoo shop in the middle of Nebraska. Zeik explains that many of the shop’s customers are transient. People passing through town who have heard about their work on social media or through a referral. Apparently they’re a big deal. Some of the customers are local folks addicted to the thrill of getting ink or pierced. It sounds bizarre, you think, but at the same time you find the idea of someone being addicted to pain fascinating.

Zeik is really easy to be around; he likes to make jokes and treats everyone with respect and kindness. In that way, he reminds you of Bucky. You try not to think like that, but it is hard to ignore as he begins to open up about his background. 

Between learning the various price points for different services, how to ring it up, and the cleaning routines, you find out Zeik learned how to play the guitar while being carted from house to house in foster care. He also collects comic books and plays video games, but lately his attention has been focused more on his tattoo art. He says he wants to take it to another level. You don’t reveal much, but you do tell him that you used to sing a little, although you haven’t done it for years, and that you love baseball.

Floyd and Lexy are talkative and funny, and when there are no clients around there’s a lot of conversation and laughter. Paired with the soft playing rock music and calming scent of lavender incense, you can easily see why Zeik likes working here. You wonder what Bucky would think of a place like this. 

Bucky used to always talk about getting a tattoo. He always said he wanted something pretty like a butterfly or a flower with the name of his mom on it. But whenever one of the neighborhood wannabe tattoo artists offered, he’d make some excuse. 

_“Stevie, that guy is a rip-off artist. He doesn’t even look like he has a steady hand. I can’t just let anyone give me a tattoo. It’s permanent!”_

You think Bucky liked the _idea_ of getting a tattoo more than anything. He always hated pain and he could be a little vain. Your heart beats a little faster as you recall the way he would spend half an hour shaping his hair with pomade. 

“Earth to Michael!” Floyd calls. Jerked out of daydreaming, you quickly stand up. The shop is empty now. “We’re closing up. Give the back a good sweep while I close out the register. ”

You nod and go get the broom. “Good evening, Michael,” Lexy says as she passes you. “See you tomorrow?”

“Evening, Lexy,” you say. “Probably.”

She gives you a wink. Ten minutes later you’re following Floyd and Zeik out. He has a big black shiny pick up truck parked a few cars down. 

Zeik unlocks the van for you to get in and then goes back to where Floyd is standing. You watch them in the side mirror as they talk in low hushed tones.

When Zeik returns to the van, he’s smirking. “Floyd likes you.”

You don’t want to care, but you do. “That’s good. I like him too.”

Zeik takes a deep breath and looks at you like he has something on his mind. “I know you just got here, but I hope you taking the job means you’re thinking about sticking around.”

You look down at your lap. “Yeah, I’m thinking about it.”


	6. Settling In

**May 2012**

Thinking about staying turns into staying. You start to relax and get comfortable, at least during the day. Nightmares continue to disrupt your sleep, and it is rare you have a full night’s rest. But having breakfast and dinner with ‘the family’ helps you from dwelling too much on the things that haunt you in your sleep. Even though no one in the house has seen war, their teasing, laughter, and camaraderie reminds you of the Howlies. No matter what adversity or trauma brought someone to the family’s table, beneath it all you sense a collective strong will to be positive.

Sometimes Raymond and Blanca come to your room after you’ve had a bad nightmare. The first time it happened you awoke to them crouching by your bed. Your entire shirt was soaked and your throat was hoarse from shouting. You were so embarrassed, but Raymond ran back to his room and returned with a water bottle, while Blanca jumped onto the bed and settled on your waist. The weight of her felt good and grounding, but you were so embarrassed. You apologized over and over. Raymond firmly told you to stop.

“Man, having bad dreams ain’t nothing to be embarrassed about,” he said. “I know you think I got my shit together, ‘cause I’m smooth like that, but don’t get it twisted, when I go to sleep at night I still see the way they shot up my little brother. They used a 12 gauge shotgun, took most of his head off. I can’t get that image out of my head. When it gets really bad, he talks to me - all fucked up like that.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and see Bucky falling. Screaming.

Raymond stays with you that first time, as you stroke Blanca’s fur and try to breathe normally again. He talks about how he never knew his father. How he and his brother got into the ‘drug game’ to keep the lights on and food in their bellies. How his brother getting killed destroyed his world. How he hit the road afterwards to find a different life. That it wasn’t just the drug lifestyle he didn’t like. He couldn’t really be himself, or love who he wanted to love, at least not around his old friends or in his old neighborhood. He tells you how he ran into Floyd, how Floyd asked him if he had any skills and then hooked him up with a gig at the local auto body shop as a mechanic in training. By the time he finishes, your nerves have settled and the embarrassment is gone.

As Raymond rises to leave, he tells Blanca to stay with you, to keep you company. You thank him for sitting with you, and he tells you it is no big deal and to try and get some sleep. It is a big deal though. Losing Bucky still feels like a fresh cut, but you realize now you’re not the only one dealing with loss. You’re not completely alone in your grief or reliving one of your worst memories.

 

Sometimes after a really bad night, you get up early to cook breakfast for everyone. Keeping busy helps put distance between you and the nightmares. Sometimes Michelle joins you. At first you thought it was because she didn’t trust your cooking. But then one day she tells you that on the days she doesn’t cook she feels useless.

“It just makes me feel better when I get to do stuff for others, you know? Like I have a purpose. I know that sounds kinda corny.”

You shake your head. “I don’t think that’s corny at all.”

Over the next few weeks, while cooking breakfast together, you find that she's a runaway. That she’s been living at the hostel for over five years. That she escaped sexual slavery after her mother sold her for drugs and it drives her work as a crisis counselor at the Voices of Hope crisis center.

Somehow though, after all of that, she manages to still be playful, flirty, and sassy. When someone in the house is down, she’ll poke them in their side or make a funny face that’s hard not to laugh at. In that way she reminds you of Bucky and his commitment to finding the bright side of things. You remember how your body used to fail you and how miserable you were on bedrest. Bucky would sit by your side and tell jokes or do impersonations around the neighborhood to try to make you laugh.

The days start to pass by much faster and soon it is June. You decide to set up a bank account. More than anything you’ve done so far in Lincoln, this feels more like a tentative commitment. Using the alias identification Amanda created, you get a new debit card and checkbook in Michael O’Connor’s name. Over the next few weeks, you deposit about 50% of the money from your duffel bag to your bank account. After living through the Depression, you still don’t trust banks enough to put it all in there.

After much private deliberation, you finally check out the deposit box Amanda set up for you. When you put the key in the box, you half expect the post office to shut its doors and flashing sirens to sound. None of that happens though. In the box you find more money, at least fifty thousand (you’re not going to sit there and count it where everyone can see). There’s also more identification - a driver and motorcycle license, passport, and birth certificate for another alias. This one’s name is Aiden Murphy.

_Oh Amanda._

You smile to yourself. You take nothing from the box and put it back, hoping you won’t ever need to look at it again.

**July 2012**

When your birthday arrives, there’s a lot of excitement. Not for your birthday though, for the 4th of July. You take responsibility for manning the grill at the youth 4th of July celebration. No one knows it’s your birthday. You only have a few secrets left now and you’re afraid that if you reveal one more thing you’ll end up telling them the rest. You’re not ready for that and neither are they. At least that’s what you tell yourself. So you spend your birthday grilling burgers, hotdogs, and chicken, surrounded by good friends and a house full of kids. It is almost perfect.

You still haven’t called Amanda, but you’re planning to soon. Just to check in and see how she’s doing. You hope that as the weeks pass, SHIELD’s interest in you has waned. Sometimes you almost manage to convince yourself that is probably true. Your hat stays on though, at least for now and Raymond has taken to calling you ‘Cap’ . You really hate it. It reminds you too much of your former life. So you start growing a beard, hoping it will be enough to cover your face so you can take the hat off.

Zeek sets off a patch in the garden for you. He says you should try your hand at planting Penstemons because they’re easy. You haven’t touched it though, so certain you’ll find a way to kill them before they can even bloom. Plus, planting feels like a symbolic promise to stick around. Zeek probably doesn’t mean it that way, but you feel the weight of it all the same.

But Zeek keeps badgering you about planting _something_ , so to shut him up, you go out there to get it over with. You make hole in the soil using the pointed tip of your hiker boots. It is easier and cleaner than using your hands. After you’ve made a hole that’s big enough, you drop the seeds Zeik gave you into the ground. There. You look down at your work and use the edge of your foot to cover the hole up.

When you turn around, Kyle is standing there, a bewildered look on his face.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Planting.”

Kyle raises his eyebrows and walks over to your newly planted seeds and frowns.

“What?” you ask.

“Um...that’s not…OK, let’s just…” he sighs and then suddenly he’s on his knees, digging your seeds up.

“Hey! What are you doing?” you protest.

“Showing you how to plant these. Come down here.” He’s looking up at you expectantly.

You exhale and slowly get on your knees, the slight dampness of the ground seeping through your jeans to chill your skin.

“So you want to place these apart. You don’t want them growing on top of each other or sabotaging the growth process before it can even stop.”

“Right,” you say, watching him dig his hands in the dirt to count and separate the seeds.

“Here,” he says, giving you four. “Let’s put like a few inches between each one and see what happens.”

“You don’t know what happens?” you ask as you follow his lead and dig four small holes spaced about two inches apart.

Kyle gives a little shrug as he continues to dig. “Like anything it’s an art and science. Let’s try it and monitor how it goes.”

You frown because this sounds like it’s going to get complicated and you really, really have no interest in getting too involved into planting or the garden for that matter.

“Relax, city boy, they’re just plants.”

“How do you know I’m from the city?” you ask.

Kyle grins. “I can spot a city boy a mile away. I used to go looking for guys like you. Thought they could teach me about culture and being refined, or at least fuck me better than the farm boys around here.”

“Did they?”

Kyle stops his digging and looks up at you for a moment, his face unreadable. You think that maybe you just fucked it up. Kyle is funny and flirty like Michelle, but a little more guarded. You respect that. It’s how you operate too. But it means you two don’t interact much.

“Yeah, they showed me alright,” he says quietly. And then he sniffs and rises to his feet. “OK, well, we’ll check on it in like a week and see how they’re coming.”

You nod and watch him walk away.

A week later, when you both meet at your patch of garden and inspect the little sprouts peeking out, Kyle tells you he works at the local diner as a short order cook, but that he has dreams of being a chef. You tell him you wish you could cook better. He tells you to watch and learn from him. Then he tells you why he knows how to cook. How he grew up poor in rural Oklahoma and had to learn how to make something edible out of nothing. How his dad used to beat him when he was drunk, but would lay off of him when he enjoyed the meal. You tell him about growing up poor in Brooklyn, and getting bullied. That you never met your dad, but that your mother was kind and the best cook you ever knew.

The week after that, Kyle tells you how his dad almost killed him when he found out he was gay. Kyle managed to get away with only the clothes on his back. He took a bus to Chicago where he has an aunt. In Chicago he says he started looking for the community he never found in Oklahoma. You talk about growing up in a queer neighborhood (you don’t mention the raids or the way some of the kids went missing only to turn up dead weeks later).

The week after that, your plants are coming in nice and Kyle explains how hard he tried to fit in with the popular kids. How he stopped eating to get the right body. Eventually his eating disorder helped him get into the in-crowd. The in-crowd did drugs, so Kyle did too. You tell him you know a thing or two about trying to fit in. How you enlisted in the Army, even though everyone told you not to. How it almost killed you.

**August 2012**

When the Penstemons are fully in bloom, you and Kyle take a walk to his patch in the garden to plant some Asters. Kyle talks about how he was stoned out of his mind when a group of guys took him to the VIP room and assaulted him until he blacked out. He woke up in the ER, his aunt by his side. She told him she’d pay for his medical bills but after that she wanted him to get out. Kyle tells you he didn’t know what to do and thought about killing himself. Then one day a kid in the hospital told him about a queer hostel in Lincoln, Nebraska that took care of people with nowhere to go. He said when he arrived here he expected to be disappointed, but instead he found the family he’d always wished for. You tell him you like it here, and that you like what they’re doing for others. He tells you that you’re a part of it now. It makes you feel like you’re walking on a cloud for the rest of the day.

At the tattoo shop you develop a routine. In the mornings, you run down the long driveway and up the road and then turn around. Then you come back for breakfast and ride into the shop with Zeik. You make the coffee as soon as you get in the door, then you mostly stay behind the counter where you welcome customers, take payment for services, and schedule new appointments. When it gets slow you sweep the floors and refill the coffee, and listen and learn more about your coworkers, the customers, and the politics of being queer or different in Lincoln.

Your guilt about not fighting with the Avengers recedes more each day. It helps that the public remains highly critical and distrustful of SHIELD and that Tony Stark keeps throwing subtle jabs at the government in the press. You find Tony Stark very interesting. He’s sort of a paradox- highly accomplished but irreverent, brilliant and reckless, he distrusts SHIELD, yet he remains a part of the Avengers initiative. Sometimes his comments rub you the wrong way, but they also stick and make you think. There isn’t much press on the other Avengers, and they never come to SHIELD’s defense. That alone speaks volumes.

The most significant thing that’s helping you let go of what you could or should have done is the work you do at the hostel. Real lives are being changed for the better here. The queer youth and young adult meetings run twice a week and sometimes on the weekends they host parties. You tried to stay out of the way at first, but after about a month Zeke pulled you into the mix. He says it helps the young people they work with to see functional adults who aren’t disapproving or judging.

So you go to the meetings, help set up and serve refreshments or whatever they need for the night. The kids seem to like you or at least they don’t avoid you. You buy arts and craft supplies because you’re not much of a conversationalist. The loners who don’t quite fit in always gravitate to your corner of the room. Even if none of them ever speak, there’s a peace in that space that you begin to cherish.

**September 2012**

Zeik suggests the living room become a quiet space. A place where kids can take a break or do art & crafts when they don’t feel like talking. He puts you in charge and you dedicate your free time to making sure it is stocked up with art supplies.

Whenever you’re in the living room facilitating arts & crafts, Blanca always makes an appearance. She likes lounging near your feet or on the arm of the love seat. The youth like being around her. Sometimes it seems as if they like being around you too. You’re not quite sure if you’re really helping the kids out until the day Travis, one of the teenage boys who has never spoken to anyone, makes a point to say good night to you when he leaves. Everyone looks at you in surprise.

“I think you might have a knack for this,” Zeek says with a wink.

You shake your head and shrug it off, but you can’t shake the sense of rightness sitting in your gut.

As the weeks go on, the kids in the quiet room start talking. They tell you about their home life and the problems they have with bullying. It lights an old fire in you and you begin to memorize names and locations where the bullying takes place. Then you start to conveniently bump into the assholes who pick on queer kids. You never threaten, just ask questions as you loom over them. After a few weeks of that, Michelle says she’s noticed a change; less tears and more kids. Kyle looks right at you when he declares they’ve never had this many youth attend group meetings regularly.

“It’s not me. I barely talk,” you say.

“You don’t need to talk,” Kyle says. “It’s your vibe. When you’re around, people feel safe.”

What they don’t know is that you feel safe too. This place, these people, they really are a family. Every day you stay, you grow more attached. Everything feels a little too easy and you’re scared one wrong move will break this little bit of peace you’ve found.


	7. Lines in the Sand

**October 2012**

For Halloween, there’s a big youth costume party. It is the first time you’ve _ever_ tried to dress up for Halloween. You fret over it for almost a week until the perfect costume presents itself at the local thrift store. An astronaut. With the tinted helmet, it’s perfect. As you look at yourself in the mirror, all you can think of is how much Bucky would have loved it. He was always reading sci-fi magazines and novels. You know he would have been a big fan of the space program. Your costume is a big hit. The youth ask you to pose with them for pictures and when the song ‘Thriller’ comes on, they ask you to do the ‘moonwalk’. When you say you have no idea what that is, everyone tries to give you a lesson. In the end, you sort of get it, at least you get it enough to fake like you know it.

After Halloween is done, traffic in the tattoo shop slows down significantly. One lazy afternoon you, Zeik, and Floyd are just lounging around and talking while Lexy finishes up with a customer in the back. Zeik is excited about the announcement of an upcoming March tattoo convention in Omaha.

“Some of the best tattoo artists are going to be there. You wanna come?” he asks you.

“Me?” you say in disbelief.

“Yeah, you,” Zeik says. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“Isn’t everyone there going to be… tattooed?” you ask.

“Well duh, yeah…”

You look yourself over pointedly and then back at Zeik.

“You don’t _have_ to have ink to go,” Zeik says. “But maybe you’ll see something there that inspires you to get some. They even set up booths so people can get ink right there.”

Lexy’s customer emerges from the back with a newly pierced eyebrow that he keeps touching.

“Leave it alone!” Lexy smacks the fella’s hand down. “And make sure you follow the after-care instructions I gave you.”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” the guy says as you ring up his transaction. Once his credit card goes through, you thank him for coming in.

As soon as he leaves, Zeik comes closer, leaning his arms on the counter. “So how come you don’t have any ink?”

There is no way you can truthfully answer that question so you say, “It’s not really my thing,” instead.

“What is it? You scared of needles? Or you just like that squeaky clean preppy image?”

“I’m not preppy!” you protest, half-offended now that you know what that word means to them (i.e. boring, conservative, a prude), even though you still sometimes enjoy wearing khaki pants.

Zeik grins like he always does when he gets a rise out of you. “I bet you’d look hot with some art on your body.”

You raise your eyebrows at that and Zeik ducks his head, his cheeks turning bright pink.

It is probably best not to read into it, but you’ve noticed the way he sometimes looks at you. And he has no problem crowding in close unnecessarily. Zeik always makes extra room, food, and time for you. Perhaps he just really values you as a friend, but it could be interpreted as something more, and that scares you a little bit.

“What do you think, Lexy?” Zeik asks, his voice pitched a little higher.

Lexy gives you a slow once over that makes you blush. “Mike with tatts? I’m not sure my ovaries could handle that. He’s already distracting.”

You bury your face in your hands. Geez, these guys.

“Seriously dude, you should give it a chance,” Zeik eggs on.

“I don’t know…”

You think about the serum and the way you heal. At the end of the day, a tattoo is just decorative scar tissue. It would be reckless. When the tattoo fades within a day or two there would be questions and you’d have to explain. And there would be no logical answer other than you used to be Captain America.

“If you don’t like it, you can always cover it up or remove it,” Floyd offers.

You chew the inside of your lip.

“What would you get if you got one?” Zeik asks, switching tactics.

He’s trying to wear you down, and it’s not exactly failing. Despite the risk, you’re still very curious.

“Something meaningful,” you answer.

They’re all looking at you now with intense interest.

“Like those words?” Zeik asks.

“No, I mean it would have to be something special,” you say. “Something I believe in.”

“And where would you get it?” Zeik’s inching closer, looking up at you with a coy little grin.

“Nope,” you say, shaking your head. “I see what you’re doing.”

“Ah come on,” Zeik whines.

“Leave ‘im alone,” Floyd scolds. “You know the rules, Zeik. No pressure. Getting ink is a big decision and it should be private.”

“I know, I know,” Zeik concedes. “I just... wanna see what he’d get if he did it.” He turns to look back to you. “Would it be a design from one of our books?”

You roll your eyes at his dogged persistence. “No… but I can draw it for you.”

Zeik practically jumps and retreats to the back. He returns quickly with a pencil and his sketchpad.

“Here,” he says, turning the pad to a clean sheet of paper.

The blank page feels like a challenge. It has been forever since you’ve drawn anything.

“Don’t be shy,” Zeik says. “I won’t make fun of your art. Just wanna get an idea of what you’d want.”

“Alright,” you say, picking up the pencil.

They all pretend to get back to work while you start to sketch.

The thing is, you’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. Working in a tattoo shop has started to affect your thoughts. When you’re not having nightmares, your dreams are full of vibrant colors, weird patterns, and shapes. At the shop, you watch Zeik and Floyd’s work closely, silently judging how you would have done their art differently.

If you ever get a tattoo, it would have to be something that inspires you. Your first thought is Bucky’s face. But Bucky would hate that. You know he would. Besides you see his face everywhere you go. No, if you ever get ink, it would have to be something you wouldn’t feel guilty about, something that motivates you, pulls you out of your funk.

The perfect phrase suddenly pops into your head. You twirl the pencil in your hand, contemplating how you want to lay it out. Three simple words. You draw them in cursive with a little flourish. It’s fancy and pretty just like Peggy. Once you finish, you slide the sketchpad over.

They all stop what they’re doing to have a look.

Zeik’s head snaps up. “You draw?”

“A little bit.”

“Draw something else, like a bird,” he orders.

“Right now?” you ask.

“Right now,” he says.

Having them all standing around watching is a bit nerve-wracking, especially since you haven’t ever shared your art with anyone other than your mother and Bucky. But these people are all artists, and you can’t deny you want their approval. So you do a quick sketch of the prairie chicken you always see by the mailbox near the house. It takes you a few minutes and it is pretty rough, but when you finish everyone looks impressed.

“Michael, you’re an artist!” Zeik declares.

Zeik’s validation is unexpectantly gratifying.

“I think that first sketch would look nice on you,” Lexy says.

“What’s it mean though? Like a tree,” Floyd reads out loud.

“Stick to your convictions,” you explain. “Stay true to what you are.”

Floyd nods. “I like that.”

“Where would you put it?” Zeik prods, his gaze steady. He’s still pushing and… you’re actually considering it.

After months of observing people getting ink you can’t deny your fascination with the process, the art, the way some people come back for more. And even though the serum gave you an incredible healing ability, you have no idea exactly how long your skin would hold a tattoo. If it doesn’t hold, getting one could turn into a confession. You’d have to explain who you are, why you’re here, and why you’re still hiding. Zeik may see you as a coward.

Only everything you know about Zeik tells you that may not be true. Zeik hates the government. Whenever SHIELD (or any other agency) is mentioned he launches into a rant about big brother and controlling the masses. Hell, the entire family is anti-establishment. So maybe Zeik wouldn’t think badly about you evading SHIELD. He might even praise you for it.

You cock your head and study the sketch. “I’d probably put it on my neck.”

Zeik’s eyes pop. “Uh, you know that’s really gonna hurt?”

“Go big or go home,” you say with a little bravado. Zeik always says that to customers who get cold feet.

“OK, tough guy,” Zeik says dryly.

“So you’re actually gonna do it?” Lexy asks. Floyd is watching closely behind her.

You take a deep breath, exhale, and come to a decision. “Yeah, why not?”

Zeik is already making his way over to his work chair.

He lays out how it’s going to go, how much time it will take. He teases that you may have to remove your cap. You tell him it’s fine, even though it makes your heart race a little. He asks you about scale and color and wants to know if tomorrow is too soon. He says it could take up to two hours, depending on your pain tolerance.

The more Zeik talks the more excited you get. But in the van on the way home, you ask him not to tell anyone yet. You want to be able to back out without a lot of questions and looks of disappointment.

Zeik promises to keep his mouth shut but he keeps glancing up at you throughout dinner.

“What’s going on?” Michelle asks when she notices.

“Nothing,” both you and Zeik say in unison, which only fuels more speculation.

“Are you two hooking up?” Raymond asks, looking scandalized.

“No!” you both say together. You feel your face burning. Of all of the assumptions they could make, why would _that_ enter into their heads?

“Oh my god! You are _so_ hooking up!” Michelle points between the two of you.

“Damn, Zeik, I didn’t even get a chance,” Kyle grumps with a frown.

Suddenly you’ve lost your appetite. “Um, we’re not…. Zeik and I are _friends_. Just friends.”

“Yeah, asshole, we’re _friends_. Stop trying to start shit,” Zeik snaps, but his face is still red and he’s averting his eyes.

The rest of the family all share dubious looks but regular conversation resumes. Zeik doesn’t look at you for the rest of the night. You don’t know how to feel about that.

As you get ready for bed, you think about why Zeik seemed so embarrassed. Maybe he really does like you.

It’s not like you don’t objectively find Zeik attractive. He’s good looking with his shoulder length blonde hair and bright hazel eyes. You just don’t see him in that way.

Michelle and Raymond keep teasing that you need to “get out there” and go on a date. But whenever you try to picture dating someone, _anyone_ , you end up thinking about Bucky. It’s stupid. You and Bucky were only ever the best of friends. You never worked up the nerve to tell him how you felt because you were so sure it would be unrequited. Thinking about what could have been and probably wouldn’t have been hurts, but it’s a pain you’re used to and not ready to let go of. You don’t want to worry about what Zeik liking you might mean for your friendship. It’s another set of complications you’re not ready to deal with.

You wonder what Amanda would say about all of this. If she’d have any advice or if she’d fuss at you for even staying and getting attached to Zeik and the family.

It has been almost six months now since you arrived in Lincoln. No one has come looking for you. You’ve been careful and you hope that means things have cooled off for Amanda.

You contemplate the burner phone you never use and then fish it out of your duffel bag. There’s only one phone number listed in there. You press send and slowly bring it up to your ear. It rings three times.

“Hello?” Amanda says, her voice as upbeat as you remember.

“Hi.”

She gasps. “Oh my god… _Sushi_?”

You scrunch up your face in confusion. “Sushi?”

“So good to hear from you, _Sushi_!”

Why is she calling you--ah! You remember that she loves sushi and so do you and no one else knows that about you. So your name is Sushi now. OK.

“How are you?” you ask.

“I’m great!” she says in a cheery voice. “I mean, if you don’t count all of the bad press and asshats trying to micromanage me. But that’s par for the course with this job. The real question is - how are _you_?”

“I’m... good,” you say, and really mean it.

“I’m so glad to hear that, Sushi. I really am. I think about you a lot.” You can hear the relief in her voice.

“Well you don’t have to,” you say. “I think I’m going to be OK now.”

“Never doubted it. If anyone can get through a tough spot, it’s you.”

Her words make you feel encouraged until you remember the trouble you probably caused her. “I think about you too. I was worried that you’d get into trouble for losing… that thing.”

She laughs. “No, no. Don’t worry about that. My _boyfriend_ knows I don’t usually lose things. He said not to worry about it, that things get lost and sometimes that means they aren’t meant to be found.”

“And you believe that?” you ask skeptically because in the short time you knew him, Fury seemed to be a devious bastard. “That they just accepted the loss?”

There’s a long pause. “Honestly? I don’t know, but it does seem like they’ve let it go. But just in case, can you keep an eye out for it for me? I’m sure if someone found it, they’d want it returned.”

You nod. “Yeah, sure, I’ll keep an eye out for it. Um, I wanted you to know that I landed in a good place with good people. We--”

“That’s good,” Amanda says abruptly, cutting you off. “That’s all I need to know, Sushi, OK?”

You nod even though she can’t see you. “OK.”

“Listen, it was really nice hearing your voice again, but I better go. You know how nosy my boyfriend is. If I stay on the phone much longer, he’s gonna start asking annoying questions.”

“Right,” you sigh. “Well, uh, take care of yourself. I’ll call when I can.”

“Please do and remember what I told you.”

Amanda told you a lot of things but you don’t ask her which one she’s talking about right now.

“I will.”

“Bye for now,” Amanda sings.

“Bye.”

The phone line goes dead. You hang up and put the phone back into the side pocket of your duffel bag. A duffel bag you don’t really use anymore. It stays underneath your bed. Everything else you own is hung up or in a drawer. You keep a picture of Peggy, you and Bucky laughing together, and one of you with all of the Howlies in a hidden pocket of your wallet. Sometimes you wonder if you’ll ever be able to put those pictures up for display. Probably not, but you hold onto the hope that maybe one day you’ll be able to do it here.

*

You wake in the morning with your pillow soaking wet and the sounds of bomb raids and Bucky’s screams growing fainter. It is not the first time and it won’t be the last, but this morning it leaves you particularly unsettled. Blanca is perched on your chest, staring down at you, her tiny claws clutching your shirt. You slide your hand over her fur and she settles down against you, her purr creating pleasant vibrations that help you calm down.

You think about your conversation with Amanda, and her warnings to be careful.

At breakfast, you find it hard to focus on the conversation, too distracted about what you would do if someone from SHIELD questioned Amanda.

On the ride to the shop, Zeik asks if you’re alright, he tells you it’s OK if you’re not ready for the tattoo, that it’s not too late to back out.

“Yeah? You promise you won’t tease me about it?” you ask.

Zeik raises his right hand off the steering wheel. “Promise. Floyd’s right - getting ink is a personal decision. I didn’t mean to pressure you. In fact, if you’re not sure, I insist you don’t get it.”

You nod, grateful for Zeik’s understanding. “Thanks. Maybe one day, but… not today.”

“OK,” Zeik says. “So no ink, but I have another proposition for you.”

You give him a ‘what are you up to’ look, which makes him chuckle.

“It’s nothing crazy, just keep an open mind, alright?”

“Zeik, you’re making me nervous. Spit it out.”

He sighs. “Fine, I think you’d make a good tattoo artist.”

You laugh. Like a genuine good belly laugh.

“It’s not funny. You can draw. That’s like the most fundamental skill in the trade. Everything else can be taught. I could mentor you.”

Your laughter dies as his words start to sink in. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” Zeik says. “We could block off an hour or two each day for training.”

Looking ahead at the road, you try to imagine giving someone a tattoo. It would allow you to draw again, something you sorely miss. There would be blood and pain though, by your hand. But then again, the customers would be seeking it out. You could offer comfort to people who are struggling with the pain. It’s not hard to picture yourself doing all of it.

Zeik points at you. “You’re thinking about it!”

You sigh,“Yeah, I am.”

“Yeah?”

“I could give it a try,” you say, cognizant that this is another root you’re laying down, tying you to this place, this community. You’re invested, and the idea no longer makes you nervous.

“Woooo!” Zeik makes a fist and pumps it in the air.

*

Zeik tells you not to mention the apprenticeship until you get your certifications and a portfolio together. He says he wants to make sure you’re ‘legit’ so Floyd can’t raise any objections.

You want that too. If you’re going to start a new career, you want to be fully prepared and competent.

So you buy a fancy watercolor set and pad from the boutique art shop in town. During the day you alternate between attending certification classes and working at the shop. At night you’re either hanging out with the family, helping with the youth group or making new art.

Your nightmares don’t go away, but now when you wake up sweating and choking on Bucky’s name, you shake it off the best you can and rise with purpose. When the nightmares stick, you dive into your work. It helps, mostly.

The baseball cap finally comes off. With a full beard and your hair grown out from the “preppy” haircut Zeik likes to tease you about, you feel safer about taking it off. You make a big deal about it, pumping yourself up days before the big reveal. You expect wide-eyed recognition and awkward silence but when you come downstairs for breakfast without your hat, none of that happens. Raymond points and says “it’s about fucking time”. Kyle whistles and calls your hair _fabulous_ and worthy of a shampoo sponsor. Michelle just gives you a flirty wink and compliments your eyes.

Zeik is the only one with nothing much to say, but his face stays pink throughout breakfast. He seems to have trouble looking you in the eye the entire day.

But after a few days or so all of the fuss about discarding your baseball cap dies down. Zeik returns to his usual self, which means he only has sporadic moments where he’s furiously blushing and averting his eyes.

Between the frequent glances and occasional long stares, you’re almost certain now that Zeik likes you. Whenever Kyle, Michelle, or Raymond tease you about dating, they always throw a side eyed glance at Zeik. You don’t know what to do or say when that happens. Zeik is your friend. A really good friend, and that’s as far as it goes. You're probably screwing up the chance to be with a terrific fella, but Zeik’s not Bucky and it’s not fair to make him compete with Bucky’s memory.

 

**November 2012**

As Thanksgiving approaches, you stay vigilant, waiting for SHIELD to show up as a result of your call to Amanda. You peek out the window every time you hear wheels crushing the rocks in the driveway and keep your duffel bag packed with spare clothes and money just in case. It takes nearly a month for you to start to relax.

For Thanksgiving everyone in the house cooks together. The kitchen is big, but not _that_ big, and there are minor squabbles and lots of teasing about who will get the oven first. It’s pure chaos and fun, and you end up laughing more than you ever have. It isn’t until the next day that you realize you didn’t even think about SHIELD once the entire time.

 

**December 2012**

Soon Christmas approaches. It will be your first Christmas in this century, and you’re not exactly looking forward to it. Christmas reminds you of your mother and how Bucky and his family always invited you and her over to eat with them. Every old Christmas carol you hear makes you a little sadder and you start to mope and stay holed up in your room more.

Maybe that’s why the family goes crazy with decorations, lighting up the entire house in tacky decorations. They pull you out of your room and make you help, hanging up stuff in places they can’t reach. There’s eggnog and family movie nights with awful Christmas movies like _Grumpy Cat’s Worst Christmas Ever_ and _Christmas Evil_ and an epic debate about whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie. It pulls you out of your blues and you get through Christmas with only a little bit of sadness.

New Year’s Eve 2012 arrives and you reflect on the crazy year you’ve had. The house is crowded with youth and everyone is either dancing or watching the live televised New Year's Eve Ball Drop in New York City. You try to look like you’re listening while conversations go on around you, but your mind is on New York and the past. You can’t tell anyone how you were born two years after the very first ball dropped, or watched the second ball drop with your mother in 1925. How Bucky snuck you onto the rooftop of Salle’s bakery to watch the ball drop in 1933. How you barely remember the fireworks that night at all because you were in love with your best friend and couldn’t take your eyes off of him. You don’t say any of that, of course. Five minutes before midnight, Zeik asks everyone to fill their glass with seltzer water, punch, or juice. When he raises his glass he looks at you.

“Here’s to new beginnings.”

You smile. “To new beginnings.”

 

**March 2013**

On March 10th, Bucky’s birthday, you wake up with a cloud of sadness hovering over you. Even petting Blanca’s soft fur can’t cheer you up. You spend the entire day feeling weighed down. You know it’s silly. That it’s unlikely Bucky would have lived to be ninety-six. It still doesn’t stop you from wondering how long he would have lived if you had caught his hand.

Zeik tries to cheer you up with a mint chocolate ice cream cone. It only helps a little bit.

By mid-March, you’re nearly done all of your certifications and have a book full of watercolor drawings. After a little goading, you join Zeik, Lexy, and Floyd at the Omaha tattoo convention.

Nothing Zeik told you could have prepared you for the size and scope of the convention. There are literally hundreds of the professional tattooers, tattoo fans and addicts, and tattoo memorabilia available for sale. There’s also a carnival. Zeik has to pull you away from watching the fire-eaters.

You watch two live paintings by world renowned artists, and cheer on Floyd as he competes in the Best in the Midwest Tattoo contest. He gets third place. Lexy shows you some extreme body modification exhibitions, which frankly make you lose your appetite, but you grin and bear it because you can see how excited she is about it.

As you guys climb into Floyd’s truck, Zeik asks you what you think.

“I think that was pretty awesome.”

Floyd and Lexy and turn their heads to look at you.

“Did you just say awesome?” Lexy asks. “Instead of neat or swell?”

You shrug. “You guys might be rubbing off on me.”

“Does that mean you’re thinking about getting some ink?” Zeik asks.

“No,” you lie.

 

**May 2013**

Over a year after arriving in Lincoln, Nebraska, Zeik makes his presentation to Floyd about why you should be his apprentice. Floyd asks for your portfolio. You hand over a large black binder with all of the requisite certificates and over sixty watercolor images.

You sit ramrod straight in your seat, bouncing your leg while Floyd flips through it. Every now and then he grunts and hums pensively and you realize you’re actually holding your breath.

“These are good,” Floyd finally says. “And all of your paperwork is in order…I gotta be honest though, it’s kind of weird you don’t have any ink but want to learn the craft. The best way to start learning is to experience it.”

His eyes are heavy with judgement. Your hope of becoming Zeik’s apprentice starts to deflate a little.

“I understand,” you say with resignation.

“Do you?” Floyd asks before a slow smile breaks on his face. “I guess we’ll see.”

“Yes!” Zeik says throwing up both hands to give a double high five.

You grin and slap his hands. “So when can I start?”

“Right now.” Floyd says.

*

You’re not sure what you were expecting, but it wasn’t drawing more pictures. Zeik won’t let you anywhere near a tattoo gun. He says you may be a good artist, but the skill of tattooing requires repetition and practice. In between manning the front counter, sweeping floors, refilling coffee, and keeping rowdy customers in check, you draw a lot of roses and butterflies. Sometime around week eight Zeik has you watching how he sets up and breaks down his machine. It’s not exactly exciting, but you’re learning.

“Think I might be able to actually pick up the machine gun today?” you ask Zeik one morning on the way to work. “Or is that more of a week sixteen thing?”

“Keep it up, funny guy,” Zeik says. “And you won’t get to touch my gun until next year.”

You snicker at the unintentional innuendo and Zeik’s face goes beet red. “I- I- mean…”

“I know what you meant,” you say, grinning.

Zeik nods and looks straight ahead. Your smile falls when you notice that his knuckles around the steering wheel are bone white.

The silence in the van grows louder than the singer on the radio belting out ‘I remember you’. It makes you think of Bucky and you hold onto that because intuition tells you Zeik is about to say something and you have to remember why you can’t be with him.

“Michael, um....”

He glances at you, still clutching the wheel like he’s holding on for dear life. You don’t want to hurt his feelings but you know he’s gearing up to ask you a question or confess something he’ll wish he could take back.

You inhale and give him a steady look. “You know if I hadn’t met you when I got off that bus, I don’t know where I’d be. Thank you for everything, Zeik. There’s not a lot of people in the world I can trust, so our friendship means a lot to me.”

A flicker of disappointment flashes behind Zeik’s eyes. “Am I that obvious?”

You give a half shrug.

“Fuck!” Zeik breathes out. “I knew it. You’re probably not even into guys, are you? Sorry, that’s….that’s totally none of my business.”

“Hey, relax,” you say, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure I’m bisexual, possibly demi. I’m still sorting it out.”

Zeik nods slowly. “Thanks for telling me. But it was inappropriate for me to even ask. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” you say. “This is the most comfortable I’ve felt around anyone in a long time, and we’re friends, right?”

“Right,” Zeik says, the color returning to his knuckles as he relaxes his grip around the steering wheel. “So, um, have you ever….” He sighs like he’s not sure how to finish it.

“Dated? Been in love?” you prompt. “Had sex?”

Zeik chuckles. “God, you must think I’m nosy as fuck.”

“Kinda.” You grin. “And no and yes. I’ve been on dates, but I’ve never dated anyone seriously. And I’ve been in love, but uh, I’ve never actually… been with anyone in that way.”

Zeik’s mouth drops open. “Wow. That’s… are you still in love with… with the person?”

“ _Persons_. Yes. I’ll always love both of them. But one of them is dying, and the other one is... dead.”

It sounds weird coming out of your mouth. Bucky’s dead. It circles around your head a lot and haunts your dreams, but to hear those words spoken out loud makes it fresh again. You think of Peggy laying in that nursing home bed, and wish you could call her or that nurse attendant to see how she’s doing. But it seems too risky. You have more to lose now than you ever did before.

The van comes to a stop and Zeik puts it in park in front of Floyd’s. You’re vaguely surprised to already be here, but then again you tend to lose time whenever you think too much about Bucky or Peggy. Zeik is looking at you with sympathy in his eyes. You both hate and appreciate it. This isn’t how you wanted to start the day, but a part of you is glad the elephant in your friendship has finally been discussed.

“I’m really sorry, man. That sucks,” Zeik says. “I know you’re probably not in the headspace to date, but if you ever want to try it again, I’m here.”

You give a small nod, grateful for his attitude and offer. “Thank you, Zeik. Honestly, if I were to date again, you’d be my first choice. But I don’t see that happening any time soon, so please don’t hold your breath.”

Zeik suddenly looks bashful. “I understand. But, uh, if I were going to hold my breath for someone, it’d be for you.”

You take a big gulp, stunned by his admission.

“Michael, you deserve to be happy,” he says. “You’re…. you’re an incredible person.”

“Thank you,” you say softly, shifting in your seat.

“Plus you’re really hot,” he says with a sly smirk.

Zeik’s little joke was the perfect tension breaker. You take his cue and roll your eyes, attempting a little joke of your own.

“Hot enough to hold your tattoo gun?”

“Well not _that_ hot,” Zeik teases.

You chuckle, relieved that your friendship with Zeik is stronger than your rejection.

Getting out of the van, you notice a slick looking black sports car parked on the side of the shop that makes you stop in your tracks. Zeik looks back at you with a question on his face. Then the door of the sports car opens and a petite red-headed woman gets out. She looks familiar.

Too familiar.

“Who’s that?” Zeik asks not so quietly.

_One of the Avengers._

As soon as the thought crosses your mind, you know it’s true.

She walks with the grace of a cat as she approaches. Even though both you and Zeik are in front of her, her green eyes are fixed on you. You glance around, scanning the block for unmarked cars and men hiding in plain sight. It looks like she came alone, but this is SHIELD, looks don’t mean anything.

It’s been over six months since you called Amanda. The first few weeks after you called her you expected someone to show, but when no one came, you grew complacent. You should have seen this coming. She warned you and you did nothing. And now SHIELD has tracked you down. They sent one of their best to drag you back and you don’t have your shield or any kind of weapon to fight.

A dull pang hits you in the gut like a sucker punch. You might have to fight this woman. Put her down. And then you’ll have to run. Move on. Where will you go? How will it affect the kids you work with- the family? What will---

“Michael O'Connor?” she asks.

“Depends on who’s asking,” you say.

She extends her hand. “My name is Natalie Rushman. I was hoping I could have a word with you?”

You take her hand. It’s petite and cool to the touch. You shake it firmly, squeezing a little harder than you usually do.

“Sure,” you say. “Um, Zeik….”

Zeik nods with a jerk, his eyes darting between the two of you.“Yeah, yeah sure. I’ll see you inside soon?”

“I won’t be long.” You wait until he walks away and the front door of Floyd’s closes even though you know he’s gonna watch you guys.

“It’s a nice day,” she says, looking up at the overcast sky. “Wanna take a walk?”

“Sure,” you say, turning left on the paved sidewalk, steering her away from the shop. Natalie Rushman, if that’s her real name, falls in step with you and neither one of you speak for a full two minutes. Once you make it down the block and turn the corner, she comes to an abrupt stop and turns to face you. Her gaze is sharp and piercing.

You can feel the hairs stand on the back of your neck as your threat assessment radar goes into code red.

Suddenly, a small smile appears on her face. It almost looks natural except it doesn’t touch her eyes.

“How can I help, Ms. Rushman?”

“I like the beard,” she says. “It really camouflages well. Except for those eyes. Those are hard to hide.”

You cross your arms over your chest and stare down at her, waiting for her to answer your question.

Your nonresponse doesn’t seem to bother her, but she takes a moment to glance down the street before looking back up at you. “You’ve made quite a life for yourself here. It’s impressive. If you hadn’t called Amanda, I don’t think I would have ever looked for you here.”

Clenching your eyes shut, you mentally scold yourself. Of course, dumbass, you brought this on yourself. And now Amanda is going to pay for your mistake as well.

You open your eyes and scowl. “Leave Amanda out of this. I’m the one who left. It’s not her fault and she had nothing to do with it.”

“Don’t worry, no one’s holding her responsible.”

A wave of relief washes over you, followed by suspicion. “So what do you want?”

“We need you to come back.”

You narrow your eyes. “Who's we?”

Natalie rolls her eyes like you’re being especially dim-witted.

“I still don’t know who you are or who you work for,” you say stubbornly.

“You know who I work for. I know you know because you just admitted you know Amanda and that you left.”

Mental facepalm. Apparently you forgot how much you suck at this.

There’s a ghost of a smirk on Natalie’s lips. Not only are you bad at evasion, but somehow this woman finds your unwitting confessions amusing.

“Fine,” you snap. You’ve been waiting for this and have the perfect argument at the ready. “Let’s just cut the bullshit. I left and I didn’t tell anyone where I was going. So why would they want me back? I haven’t exactly shown myself to be dependable or trustworthy. Plus, it looks like your team is doing just fine without me.”

“I didn’t say we weren’t doing fine without you,” Natalie says with a deadpan voice. “We are. But we could always be better. You have a very particular skill set that could be helpful the next time we fight. And as far as trustworthiness goes, they could do much worse. Me for example.”

“And who are you exactly?”

“Someone with red in their ledger and who also cares about global security,” she says coyly.

“Did Fury send you?”

“Would it matter if he did?” she asks.

“No. It doesn’t matter who sent you. I’m not going back,” you say firmly. “And I don’t appreciate you breaching my friend’s privacy to track me down. Things like that are the reason I got out.”

Natalie bites her bottom lip and looks just to the side of you like she’s contemplating something. “Is there a coffee shop around here? It’s been a long drive and I could use a cup of tea.”

What is she up to? You give her a dubious look and jerk your head to the left. “Two stores over.”

“Great. Would you join me… please.”

There’s real concern on her face, like she wants to tell you something important. Your hardass act is no match for this display of sincerity and vulnerability. It’s probably an act. She’s obviously trained and good at what she does, but your eternal faith in the good of humanity won’t let you _not_ give her a few minutes.

“Fine. Follow me,” you say gruffly.

You take her to The Mill Coffee and Tea cafe. She orders a medium Russian Caravan tea, you order a small vanilla latte. You find a seat in the back where there’s no one sitting and make sure to sit with your back to the wall where you can see past her and out the windows.

“You have ten minutes,” you say.

“I know why you left,” she says without preamble. “I read your file. You’re principled, loyal, and you like to play it straight. You expect everyone you work with to be the same. You think SHIELD plays dirty.”

You take a sip of your coffee, not disagreeing.

“I respect that. I do,” she says. “But we can’t accomplish half of what we do without dealing in secrets.” She dunks her tea strainer as she talks, and you can see her mentally counting how many times she’s doing it. You wonder if that’s a nervous tick or calculated.

“And what exactly have you accomplished?” you ask, raising one eyebrow.

“Well for starters, we saved the world from an alien attack,” she says dryly.

“ _The Avengers_ saved the world, not SHIELD,” you retort. “For all I know SHIELD started that attack. What did that one scientist say? ‘SHIELD has been messing with things from other worlds’. He said they helped open that portal.”

“He doesn’t know anything,” she says, wrinkling her nose in irritation. “He wasn’t even there.”

You shake your head. “The thing is, even if you are telling the truth, there’s no way of corroborating it because SHIELD isn’t transparent about what they do or how they do it. When I spoke to Fury, he basically admitted they believe the ends justify the means, even if it means getting into bed with the enemy.”

Natalie purses her lips. “Sometimes that’s the only way to stop the enemy before they kill a lot of people.”

It’s the same twisted logic Fury tried to feed you. This conversation is starting to get under your skin in all the wrong ways.

“Once you get into bed with the enemy, you’re complicit in their crimes.”

Natalie takes a sip of her tea and then sits back to look at you. You glare back at her, refusing to blink until she does.

Finally she sighs. “I know what you’re thinking, Rogers. That once upon a time, the world was black and white and everything fell into nice little boxes labeled good or evil. You think that we screwed that all up and made everything grey. But it’s always been this way, you just didn’t want to see it.”

“Perhaps,” you say, putting your mug down. You’ve thought about this a lot since you woke up. You know Natalie is probably right. It doesn’t change a damn thing about what SHIELD’s doing though. “But it’s a choice. The minute you start playing by someone else’s rules you become their pawn, and you’ll always lose because it’s not your game anymore.”

“Anyone can be a pawn, Rogers,” she argues. “Once you learn that, you can beat them at their own game.”

You huff. “And what’s the point of winning when you have to sacrifice the values you were fighting for? And since we’re using real names now, what’s yours?”

She doesn’t respond right away, but she’s looking you over now and reassessing. “Natasha. Natasha Romanova.”

“Romanova... the one they call the Black Widow…” you say, watching for her reaction.

There’s a mischievous gleam in her eyes when she leans in. “Well, there is a woman the tabloids are calling that. Some claim she was in New York during the time of the attack. I guess if you squint really hard, I kinda sorta look like her, but the footage is pretty shitty.”

That almost pulls a smile out of you. You’re slightly charmed, and honestly, you want to know more about her. Where did she come from? What did she do before SHIELD? But asking more questions means getting invested and you won’t. You can’t. Not when SHIELD’s methods and goals are still so murky.

You glance up at the clock on the wall. “Ten minutes are about up.”

There’s a glint of disappointment in her eyes and then it’s gone. “You’re not coming back, are you?”

You glance up at the ceiling, like you’re giving it serious thought. “I’ll come back on one condition…”

Natasha tries to play it cool, but you don’t miss the way she straightens with interest.

You lean in and look her straight in the eyes. “I’ll come back if you can promise me that I’ll always know who I am fighting and why.”

Natasha’s gaze falls to her folded hands. “You know it doesn’t work like that.”

“Then we have nothing else to discuss,” you say. “You can tell Fury, Coulson, and whoever else sent you, I’m done. Don’t come looking for me again. Whoever they send next time will regret it.”

Natasha’s eyes widen slightly. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise,” you say evenly.

She smirks. “You’re a little dramatic, aren’t you?”

You narrow your eyes, annoyed at her teasing and the fact that Peggy would definitely endorse that assessment.

“Rogers, you can relax, no one sent me. I came here on my own.”

It sounds too good to trust. You search her eyes, looking for any hint of deception. You can’t find any, but when it comes to someone like her, you’re not sure that means much.

“You expect me to believe no one else knows I’m here?” you ask skeptically.

“They’re not looking,” she says. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Fury would love it if you came back and I think Coulson would actually cream himself, but the trail has gone cold and they have bigger fish to fry. It’s not a priority right now.”

“So why do you care?”

She gives a half-shrug.“You’re a genetically enhanced super soldier and a great strategist. It’d be stupid not to try to recruit you back.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, not sounding sorry at all. “I wish I could help.”

You watch as she toys with her tea mug, her perfectly red manicured forefinger circling the cup’s rim.

“I understand your reasons,” she says quietly. “But I have to say after reading up on your background and why you signed up for the serum, it’s hard to imagine why you’d go back on your promise to Erskine.”

You narrow your eyes, trying not to give anything away. “What promise?”

Natasha scans your face. “You’re a terrible liar.”

You stay silent, refusing to concede that yes, your poker face sucks.

She smirks. “Howard Stark talked a lot about you in the press. He said, and I quote ‘For this project, Erskine required a selfless man with a strong moral center. We found that perfect soldier in Steve Rogers.’ I just assumed Erskine personally vetted you and made you promise to stay good. And you just confirmed it.”

You’re slightly impressed at her deductive skills, not to mention a little unnerved.

She looks up at you with doe eyes then. “I also recall one of those articles quoted you as saying you became Captain America to fight for those who can’t.”

It’s her last play. A damned good one too. Six months ago, it may have worked, but you’ve had time to reconcile your guilt and do some soul searching about why you’re still here.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” you say, enjoying the wonderful clarity and rightness that hits you as you say it. “Only this fight doesn’t require me to compromise my principles.”

Natasha searches your face for a moment before appearing to come to peace with what you’re saying. “Then I wish you all the best.”

“Thank you,” you say.

“Rogers, I know what it’s like to be out there in the wind by yourself, trying to hide from everyone,” she says. “I was trained for that. You weren’t. You’re doing pretty good for yourself, but watch your back.”

“Was _that_ a threat?” you ask, half-joking.

She gives you a genuine smile. It looks great on her. “No. Your secret is safe with me. You don’t have to leave. I won’t tell anyone you’re here.”

You snort in disbelief.

“If I wanted to out you, you would know it by now,” she insists.

“And why should I trust you?” you ask.

“I could have brought a team and a pair of magnetic handcuffs, but I came alone and didn’t tell anyone where I was going. Besides, why would I compromise your position if I’m trying to recruit you for the team? You’d never be able to trust me.”

You nod, conceding her point.

“I’m not stupid, just persistent,” she says.

You push your chair back and rise from the table. She doesn’t move.

“It was nice meeting you, Rogers.”

“Likewise. Have a good day, Ms. Romanova.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song on the radio is "I Remember You" by Skid Row.


	8. Steve Rogers?

You return to Floyd’s, hoping there won’t be many questions. Zeik has a customer but he cuts off his tattoo gun when you walk in. There’s a question on his face. You tell him everything is fine. It doesn’t look like he believes you, but gratefully he lets it go and resumes his work. 

Floyd says ‘good morning’ but he’s studying you in a way that makes you feel self-conscious, like he knows something’s not quite right. 

Lexy is standing behind the front counter, flipping through _The Point._ She makes a show of looking at the clock behind her. “It’s about time you showed up. I was about to call the sheriff and report a missing person.”

“Sorry, Lex,” you say coming around the counter to take her place behind the cash register. “You can go back to your station. I’ve got this.”

“Oh no, I’m good,” she says, giving you a firm side-bump with her hip. “I don’t have any customers until noon. Go refill the coffee and then you can sit down and watch Zeik finish that sleeve.”

As you make your way back to the breakroom, you can still feel Floyd’s eyes on you. You change the coffee filler and make another pot and tidy up the break room. When you come back out, Floyd looks up from cleaning his station.

“Everything alright?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” you say too quickly.

“Who was that woman?” Floyd asks. “The one driving that fancy Corvette?”

“Oh, uh, just an old acquaintance,” you stammer. God, you really need to work on lying. It would be helpful in establishing this new identity. 

“An acquaintance?” Zeik says, his eyes still focused on his task. “Don’t tell me, you know her from the secret society for hot people.”

“I can neither confirm or deny that,” you say.

Zeik grins. “So you are admitting you’re hot now?”

“Shut it,” you say, pulling up a seat to watch what he’s doing. 

He’s about 3/4ths done with a greyscale sleeve of weeping angels. The art is grotesque, scary, and absolutely gorgeous. Zeik is so good at his craft, and every time you observe his work it makes you realize how much you still have to learn. 

The customer is a skinny kid you’ve never seen before. With his eyes scrunched up like he’s afraid to look. He’s obviously not here for the pain and he keeps breathing through his nose and out through his mouth like he’s practicing some kind meditation tactic. Zeik talks to him in soft soothing tones about meaningless things like motorcycles and movies. 

“You need a break?” Zeik asks after he finishes up the wing of another angel.

“No,” the customer grits out. “Just wanna get this over with. Keep talking to me.”

Zeik glances up at you. “I got a better idea. Why don’t we let Michael talk about his hot red-headed friend.”

You frown, giving him a disapproving glare.

But Zeik’s focus is on his work. “So who's the old acquaintance? She got a name? Significant other?”

You know he’s just teasing, but that sinking feeling is back. The same dread you experienced when you recognized Natasha. You glance over your shoulder. Floyd is watching you like a hawk. 

You wipe your sweaty hands on your jeans as you scramble for something close to the truth. “Um, well, her name is Natalie, and... I don’t know much about her personal life. Like I said, we’re acquaintances...not friends.”

Zeik pulls back the tattoo gun and his eyes fly up to meet yours. You stop breathing as he looks past you to where Floyd’s standing. 

“Damn, that’s too bad,” he says with forced cheeriness. “She looked like she could be a model or something. So…. how about those Saltdogs? You think they’ll make it to the playoffs this year?”

“Hell no!” The customer blurts out. 

Everyone laughs and the conversation switches to Lincoln’s troubled baseball team and their record. You sigh discreetly in relief.

*

Zeik let’s you do mock up sketches for his next two customers, and then it is time to close. Everyone cleans up while Floyd cashes out the register. Usually, you find this part of the day relaxing. It’s a type of cool down after a full day of work. But not tonight. As you sweep the floor and wipe down the waiting area, the sinking gut feeling you had turns to sorrowful resignation. 

You have to leave. No matter what Natasha said, your hope for staying here is practically gone. It doesn’t help that Floyd hasn’t stopped throwing looks your way. And not the friendly kind. The kind he gave you when he first met you. Like he has suspicions that you might be trouble.

And he’s right. You are trouble. If you stay here, you’ll complicate all of their lives. Even if Natasha honors her word, she can’t guarantee that SHIELD didn’t follow or track her steps. For all you know they’re coming tomorrow, or later tonight. 

“Got something on your mind, Michael?” Floyd asks, jerking you out of your thoughts.

Both Zeik and Lexy have stopped cleaning their stations to look up.

“Uh….” you glance around as you search for something that’s close to the truth.

“Don’t,” Floyd says. 

“What?” you ask.

“Don’t dick me around. That woman came here looking for you. And it’s related to the reason you’re hiding out in Lincoln. Isn’t it?”

You glance to Zeik and for once he’s completely silent. His eyes are unsure as they search yours and you can’t lie to him. To them. You’re tired of trying.

“Yes.”

Floyd eyes pop like he’s surprised you admitted to it. “What kind of trouble are you in? And is she gonna come back or send anyone else?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “She said she wouldn’t but… I can’t promise you anything. That’s why I’m leaving.”

“What? No!” Zeik drops his cleaning rag and rushes towards you. “You can’t leave!”

“Zeik…”

“You can’t! Where will you go? You’d be all alone again. You…. you have a life here. Friends. _Family._ ”

Every word he’s saying hits like a slap but you shake your head, determined to stick to your guns. “I can’t stay here and put you all through this. This is my problem, Zeik and I have to deal with it on my own.”

“No!” Zeik says, raising his voice. “If there’s one thing you’ve shown us, it’s that we have to stick up for each other. We learned that from you.”

You huff. “Don’t try to sweet talk me. The reason we met was because you were sticking up for someone you didn’t know.”

“Yeah, I remember. I also remember thinking damn, this guy is amazing. I’ve been trying to get a lot of the kids we work with to open up and talk for _years_. You come along and in a couple of months, they’re talking their heads off. They need you, Michael. Please don’t leave.”

The way he says it, you can tell that it is not just about the kids. He’s laying his heart out for you to see. 

“What will we tell them if you just up and disappear?” he asks.

You shake your head, trying not to picture the dejected faces of the youth. You know some of them will blame themselves if you go. Never in your wildest dreams would you have imagined yourself as a caretaker - that was always Bucky’s thing. Maybe unconsciously that’s who you’ve been trying to emulate, and now you’re messing it all up. Guilt floods your chest, making it ache. 

“Tell them... tell them I had to go. I’m sorry. I really am. Floyd, I didn’t mean to let you down.”

“You’re not letting me down,” Floyd says in a much softer voice. “I was just asking questions so that I can be prepared. If you want to stay, you can. To be honest, I don’t think the place would be the same without you.”

That's not what you were expecting, and for a moment, you’re not so sure what you will do. But then you think of the shock and fear on your family’s face when SHIELD shows up at the house in the middle of the night. The agents will probably come in their tac gear, armed with whatever technology they’ve developed to subdue you. You can see Raymond coming out of his room, barking threats, while Kyle and Michelle yell and scream their heads off. And Zeik would fight for you. He’d get himself arrested or worse to keep you out of their hands.

You can’t do that to them. You can’t put them through that kind of stress. It is best if you leave. Tonight.

“I really wish I could stay,” you say to Floyd, and then to Zeik. “But consider this my notice.”

“Michael,” Lexy says from where she’s perched against the wall. She shoves off to walk up to you. “Honey, you’re a grown man. We can’t tell you what to do with your life. But, you should know we all like you a lot, some of us even love you.” She throws a side eyed glance to Zeik who quickly looks away. Lexy puts a hand up to your cheek and you lean into it. “So how about this - why don’t you go home, get some rest, and sleep on it.”

As she strokes your cheek, you close your eyes, registering just how fast your heart is beating. You should just go, but this place, these people have wormed their way into your heart and they want you to stay. Perhaps sleeping on it may provide some clarity.

“OK,” you whisper.

“Thank you,” she says. “And if you wake up in the morning and still decide you have to go, I want a better goodbye than this. You understand me?”

You duck your head and nod. “Yeah.”

“Good,” she says, tipping up on her toes to give you a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Night guys.”

“Goodnight, Lexy,” Floyd says. “Night, Lex,” Zeik murmurs as she walks out.

As the door closes behind her, Floyd and Zeik don’t move. They stand in place, quietly watching you. 

You shift on your feet, and rub the back of your neck, not quite sure what to say. 

“Does this have something to do with law enforcement?” Floyd blurts out.

You sigh wearily. “Yes, but it’s not what you’re thinking. I’m not really a fugitive, _per se_.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Floyd asks. 

“Floyd, if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me,” Floyd says.

You grind your teeth in irritation. If you could tell him, you would, but you can’t and for some reason you don’t think he’s gonna let it go.

“Look, I know you mean well, but the less you know, the better,” you say. “Once I tell you, you become a part of it.”

“You said it wasn’t illegal or dangerous,” Floyd shoots back.

“It’s not but--”

“Then I don’t see what the big deal is, unless you’ve been lying,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“It’s more like…” You pause, searching for the appropriate word. “It would be _disruptive._ Your life would become complicated just because you employ me. I’m not trying to be vague. I’m trying to protect you.”

Floyd looks up at the ceiling like he’s at his wit’s end. “In case you haven’t noticed, I started a hostel for runaways and people having a rough time. I organized the queer youth and young adult groups even though people threatened my life. I took over responsibility for a plot of land to create that garden even though everyone in this town said it was a waste of time and money. So do me a favor, Michael? Save the knight in shining armor act. Nobody here needs your protection. We want the truth. I think we deserve that.”

You respect Floyd and all that he’s done for you and everyone else. Maybe you have been treating him and Zeik with kids’ gloves, thinking they wouldn’t be able to handle the truth. But both of them have been there for you this whole time and if SHIELD really does return to try and force you to come back, they deserve to know why.

“How much time you got?” you ask.

“As long as it takes,” Floyd says. 

Zeik looks slightly relieved as he looks back at you. 

“Maybe we should order a pizza first?” you suggest. “This could take a while.”

*

Zeik orders two large pepperonis and a supreme for you from Ramos and then you start from the beginning. You tell them about growing up poor in Brooklyn. About your best friend Bucky. You don’t tell them how you fell in love with him in sixth grade because that’s not important to the story. But you do tell them how close you and Bucky were, and that you’d follow him anywhere. 

You tell them all of this while they eat their pepperoni pizza. You don’t touch your supreme pizza. Your appetite is gone. In fact, your stomach feels funny, like you drank curdled milk. Floyd starts to look at you like you’ve lost the point of the story. Perhaps because your life before the serum really does sound like one of those fairytales that starts with ‘it was a dark and dreary night’. Even though you can see the doubt on Floyd’s face, you don’t rush to skip to the present. It’s important they understand why you enlisted and agreed to take the serum. They need to understand that to understand why you ran. 

When you get to the start of the war and the call for enlistment, Floyd starts asking exactly what war you’re talking about. You tell him to hold on, you’re getting to that. He gives you a dubious look like his patience is wearing thin. You tell them how you lied to get enlisted and got rejected every time. Bucky showing up in his sergeant's uniform and then shipping out the next day. How you wanted to follow him. And then one day, you met a doctor who gave you a chance and asked if you’d consider signing up for his experiment.

“Hold on! Hold the fuck on,” Floyd says, raising his hand. “You’re talking about World War II! Right? I know this story. This is not your story. This is the story of Steve Rogers and how he became Captain America.”

“Captain America? Like the hero from World War II?” Zeik asks, looking between you and Floyd. “What the hell, Michael? Are you trolling us? You said you’d tell the truth.”

You listen to them patiently and remind yourself they have no reason to believe you at this point. 

“Please, just let me finish,” you ask. 

Floyd and Zeik exchange a glance and then give you a nod to continue.

So you finish the story and watch the change in their expressions. Their faces go from skeptical to interested to completely enthralled. 

“And Natasha said she wished me all the best,” you finish.

Floyd and Zeik gawk at you in awed silence, like they don’t know what to say.

Finally Floyd clears his throat. “So you’re telling me that your real name is Steve Rogers, and that you served in World War II as Captain America?”

“Yes,” you say, holding his gaze, hoping he can read your sincerity.

“And that you’ve been frozen for almost 70 years?”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re on the run from SHIELD, the same people who started the Avengers, because legally they might have some claim on the serum that runs through your body, and you don’t trust them.”

“Yes.”

Floyd cocks his head. “And how do we know you’re not pulling our leg?” 

You glance around the shop, your eyes falling on Zeik’s tattoo station. You could lift the whole thing up with one hand, but that seems sort of showy. You can practically see Peggy rolling her eyes. Perhaps it’d be better for Floyd to pose the challenge. 

“You want me to prove it?” 

“Yeah, I do,” Floyd says with a dare in his eyes.

Zeik still looks flabbergasted, but you can’t tell if it is because he thinks you’re telling the truth or just plain crazy.

“You said it’d take about two hours to do that tattoo I wanted, right?” you ask him.

Zeik’s mouth drops open in surprise. “Um...yeah, I mean, if you can sit through the whole time without a break. You still want it on your neck?”

“Yes.” You trace a line from your earlobe to your shoulder on the right side.

“Alright then, yeah, about two hours,” he says.

“OK, I’m ready,” you tell him.

“And what exactly would that prove?” Floyd asks skeptically.

“The serum gave me healing abilities. It’s the reason why I survived the crash. If I’m telling the truth, the tattoo won’t last long. It will probably disappear by tomorrow morning. If I’m lying, it’ll still be there just as fresh as when Zeik finishes it.”

“Unless you leave in the middle of the night. Then we’ll never know,” Floyd says with an eyebrow raised.

“I won’t leave like that,” you say. “I promise.” 

Zeik’s looking at you like that’s all he really wanted to hear.

“Alright, come on back,” he says. “Let’s get started,” he says.

*

Zeik is gentle as he cleans your skin. You can feel goosebumps rising as he traces the newly cleaned place with his fingertips, inspecting it. “Right along here?”

You nod and wait as he stencils over the sketch you drew months ago. A ripple of anxiety tears through your chest as he lifts the transfer paper up to put on your neck. He sprays the paper and presses it down into your skin. It tickles a little bit. 

As he pulls his chair up and picks up the tattoo gun you try to calm down and think of anything else. 

“You ready?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, looking up at Floyd who is standing near the front, still nibbling on his pizza and watching. 

The tattoo gun buzzes to life. You’ve heard it a thousand times but you still go rigid because this is really happening. Right now. And it’s going to hurt. But then you remember Zeik is a master with new customers. He takes a few moments before he moves in. He wants you to get used to the buzzing sound, become less afraid of it. 

You gasp when the gun pricks your skin. It hurts, but it’s the kind of pain you associate with a bee sting. One long continuous bee sting. It’s definitely not as painful as getting shot or even being pounded into the pavement by Jimmy Polanski in ninth grade. After a few minutes you get used to the sharp little bites. It almost feels as good as the sting from a solid punch or the burn in your lungs when you’re chasing a Hydra goon. That kind of pain always gives you a rush, makes you feel alive. 

You keep your eyes ahead, on the shop’s window. The street outside is dark and mostly deserted. Your eyes follow the occasional car that drives by as the buzzing of the tattoo drones on. You gasp as the sting of the gun climbs and then the pain grows dull. You begin to slip into a type of trance, waiting for the pricks to crescendo again. When it does it feels like it’s digging into your skin, giving you something you can really _feel_. Pain flares, subsides and then flares again. Your entire neck is an exposed nerve ending. 

“Need a break?” Zeik asks.

“No, keep going… please,” you say, hating how breathy your voice sounds. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re kinda into this.” 

You should probably be embarrassed, but you’ve seen enough customers to know this is a _thing_ that happens. You’re not the only first person to get a rush from the pain. 

“Maybe I am.” 

*

Once Zeik finishes, both he and Floyd study your neck. 

“It’s not gonna fade instantly,” you say. “It’ll probably take a few hours, maybe even a whole day. It varies.”

“I guess we’ll see come morning,” Floyd says.

Zeik stretches his arms and yawns loudly. “Man, I’m tired. I can’t wait to hit the bed.”

“Are you awake enough to drive?” you ask in concern.

“Yeah, I’m good.” Zeik laughs at the skeptical look you give him. “I promise. Come on, Let’s hit the road…. Night Floyd.”

“Night guys. See you _tomorrow_ ,” Floyd says with a pointed look. 

“Good night, Floyd,” you murmur.

In the truck Zeik starts the engine and turns on the radio like he always does. This melody sounds familiar. 

_I’m forever yours, faithfully._

You mouth the words. There’s always a moment of pride when you recognize something from the present. Well it’s from the 1980’s, so it’s relatively current. 

Five minutes into the ride, you notice Zeik is being unusually quiet. Perhaps because it has been a long day, but the air in the van feels different, heavy. You look over and he catches your eye before turning his attention back to the road. He’s gripping the steering wheel tightly again. You wait him out, patiently giving him time to work up to whatever he’s about to say. 

“It’s Bucky, right?”

You slowly turn your head to look at him. “What?”

Zeik’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “Um, the guy you’re in love with? The one you said was dead. You were talking about your best friend.”

You don’t know what to say. No one, _no one_ , has ever suggested such a thing. At least not in your presence. But since you were little, you’ve always been prepared for it. Before the serum, before the war, you used to be self-conscious, so certain everyone could see how much you loved Bucky. But you had a dozen sarcastic responses and clever comebacks just in case anyone dared to suggest such a thing. No one ever mentioned it though. 

So hearing it said now, out loud for the first time, from Zeik of all people, is surreal. An old fear seizes you, holding you catatonic for a moment.

“You know Raymond's heard you call his name in your sleep,” Zeik says gently.

You open your mouth to make excuses, but there are none. There’s nowhere to hide from this, nowhere to run.

“It’s OK, I get it,” he rushes to say. “That must have been horrible...my first crush was my best friend too. He uh, didn’t take it so well. It really fucked me up but it was nothing compared to what you went through, having to wa--” he stops abruptly, his mouth clicking shut. 

You still can’t move. The song on the radio changes. It is abrasive and guitar heavy and you hate it. You really hate it.

“Did you uh, did you ever tell him how you felt?” Zeik asks after several minutes.

You shake your head slowly as an invisible harness wraps tight around your chest. 

“I’m really sorry,” he says. “That fucking sucks.”

“Yeah.” Your voice is hoarse with emotion.

“Does it feel like… like it just happened?” Zeik asks. “I know you said it’s been almost seventy years, but you weren’t like... conscious during any of that, were you?”

“No,” you say numbly.

“Shit, man,” Zeik mutters. “All of this must be so weird for you. Like some kind of fucked up time travel movie.”

You don’t respond, afraid that if you open your mouth all of your grief will spill out. That you’ll confess how alone and aimless you’ve felt since you woke up in that fake SHIELD hospital bed. Zeik admires you for being strong, some kind of role model. You don’t want to ruin that by confessing sometimes you’re lost.

“Well, look on the bright side, you’re here now. That’s what matters,” he says with a renewed zeal in his voice. “You must have come back for a reason. There’s always a reason. I don’t really believe in God or anything but I do believe that things happen for a reason. And I think you came to Lincoln because you’re supposed to be here, because we needed you.”

There’s wetness in your eyes as you gaze at the road ahead. “I want to believe that too.”

*

When the van pulls up to the drive of the house, the entire family runs outside.

“Where have you been?” Michelle practically shouts at Zeik.

“Damn y’all, we were worried!” Kyle says crowding in on you as soon as you step out. Blanca slinks around your leg and then glares up at you, like she’s mad too.

Raymond stands on the porch with a frown on his face. “You can’t answer your phone, man?”

“Sorry!” Zeik says. “Guys, I’m so sorry. Some shit went down at the shop, and we got caught up in it.”

They all ask different versions of ‘what happened?’ and you try to help Zeik fill in a bullshit excuse about a strange customer from out of town who came in for some ink just before closing. It doesn’t look like they really buy it, but now that they see that you both are safe, they begrudgingly accept the explanation.

Everyone walks into the house together. You can smell the scent of Raymond’s infamous fajitas.

“Dinner’s in the fridge. I made my best dish. Y’all lucky I saved you some,” Raymond grumps.

“Thanks, Ray,” you say.

He just purses his lips like he’s still irritated but then his eyes go wide and he leans in, checking out your neck.

“Oh shit! You got a tattoo?”

“No way!” Michelle says, pushing forward to get a look

“Let me see!” Kyle screeches as he pushes towards you.

They’re all on your like a bunch of little kids. It’s annoying and endearing, and you kind of love it.

“It’s just a tattoo,” you say. “All of you have them.”

“Yeah but you don’t have _any_. This is your first one,” Raymond says.

“Aww, Zeik popped your cherry!” Kyle gushes.

Zeik goes beet red and coughs. 

“Huh,” Michelle says, pulling back.

“What?” you ask.

She shrugs. “Nothing.”

“No, what is it?” Zeik asks, his brow furrowed. 

“Nothing. It’s really nice,” Michelle says. “It’s just that...it’s kinda light, like it’s not really filled in yet.”

You and Zeik exchange a glance.

Kyle frowns at Michelle. “Obviously, it's just an outline. Zeik’s gonna fill the rest in tomorrow.”

“Oh, OK,” Michelle says. “Well, I can’t wait to see it filled. I love those words.”

“Thanks,” you say as she kisses you on the cheek.

“Goodnight, Mike.”

“I see you,” Raymond says, gripping your hand in the weird handshake he taught you. “My man is getting inked up. What’s next? A nose piercing?”

You shrug.

“Shiiiit, I think we’re a bad influence.”

“What are you talking about? This is all good,” Kyle says. “Night guys. Glad you’re alright. Don’t pull that shit again. Zeik, answer your fucking phone!”

“Yeah, alright,” Zeik sighs. “G’night guys.”

You and Zeik stay downstairs while the others either go down or up to their rooms. Zeik opens the fridge like he’s contemplating taking out the leftover fajitas.

When you hear the last bedroom door shut, Zeik turns around and runs his hands through his hair.

He’s staring at your tattoo, at least, what’s left of it. 

“Holy shit... you really are Captain America.”

“Actually I’m not. Not anymore,” you say. “But I am still Steve Rogers.” 

“It’s nice to meet you, Steve Rogers,” he says with a grin. “Or should I call you Michael?”

“Yeah, for now,” you say. “I’m still trying to keep a low profile.”

Zeik nods. “OK. What are you gonna tell them tomorrow, when that tattoo is gone?”

You think about everything Floyd, Lexy, and Zeik have said tonight and know there’s only one answer.

“The truth,” you say.

“Breakfast should be interesting,” Zeik says with a smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song on the radio is Journey's "Faithfully".


	9. Family is Who You Choose

The digital clock reads 3:06am when you wake up. The sheets are soaking wet and Bucky’s name is caught in your throat. You have to cough to breathe again. That’s when you notice Blanca is sitting on your legs, watching you, and Raymond is standing by the door with a bottle of water. 

You reach out for it. When he hands it over you gulp it down while he watches. 

“Better?”

You nod. “Thank you.”

“Need to talk?”

You look up at him and wonder how he will react when he finds out who you really are. Should you just tell him now? No, you need to tell them all at once. 

“I just need to get some sleep,” you say.

Raymond hands you the towel draped over his shoulder. You put it over your wet pillow.

“Thanks, Ray.”

“No problem. Goodnight.”

Blanca crawls up and over to settle into the space between you and the wall. You stroke her fur and take calming breaths to get your heart rate back down. As your eyes drift up to the ceiling, Bucky’s last scream still echoes in your head. You try to focus on other things, hoping it will fade soon. You start to think through if you can really stay here and how it would affect the relationships you’ve built. Although Zeik was accepting, you have no ideas if the others have firm ideas about who Captain America is. If they do, it may affect the way they treat you. No one in the house thinks much of the government. What if they don’t like what Captain America stands for? Would they stop speaking to you? Or worse, keep things cordial and distant, slowly pushing you out of their tight knit circle?

The thought fills you with consternation. It would be better to just walk away than to have your heart broken like that. You could pack a bag right now, call a cab, and quietly slip out.

But that wouldn’t be right. Like Zeik said, this is your family now, and you don’t treat family like that.

You can’t go back to sleep, but you close your eyes and say a silent prayer to whoever is up there that tomorrow your family will listen with open hearts and try to understand your story. 

*

By the time the smell of breakfast drifts upstairs, you’ve already showered and dressed. You’re wearing a V-neck white t-shirt that shows off your unblemished skin. You’ve also packed your duffel bag, just in case. If things go south after the reveal, you want your exit to be as quick and painless as possible. 

You hear them all down there, moving around, talking and laughing. You stand in your doorway, staring at the stairs.

“Michael!” Kyle shouts from the kitchen. “Are you up? It’s time to eat! These greedy bastards are eating everything. You better get down here!”

Normally, you’d bound down the stairs. When it is Kyle’s turn to make breakfast there’s always a surprise. Southwestern frittatas, strawberry pancakes, some French recipe he found on the internet, whatever it is, it is always exciting.

But today you take slow measured steps to the kitchen, pausing at the living room to shore up your courage. It is a typical morning in the house. Raymond and Michelle tease each other which causes Kyle to cackle. Zeik tells them all to knock it off, but he has a relaxed ease to his voice that says he’s enjoying himself.

Blanca slinks by your leg and then sits on her haunches to stare up at you like ‘what are you doing?’.

“I guess I’m stalling,” you mutter to her. 

Blanca turns away and stalks into the kitchen like she thinks you’re being way too dramatic. 

OK, fair point. You’ve stalled long enough. Straighten your back, put one foot in front of the other, and go face them.

“Morning, Michael,” Michelle says bright and cheery.

“Morning.” 

“It’s about time!” Kyle says with exasperation. “Raymond was just about to take your soufflé.”

“No, I wasn’t!” Raymond protests. “And I see you, Kyle. You’re feeling yourself. You just wanted to make sure Michael knew you made ham and swiss soufflés.”

“ _And_ vegetarian soufflés too!” Kyle sasses. “Don’t hate on me cause I got skills. You know you love my cooking!”

“It’s _aight_!” Raymond says before stuffing another bite into his mouth.

Your eyes find Zeik. He’s glancing around the table. He watches you close as you turn towards the stove where the little quiche looking things Kyle called soufflés sit.

You grab a plate and a soufflé and sit down. “Michelle, can you please pass the orange juice?”

“Sure. Here you go,” she says, handing you the pitcher. Suddenly her eyes go wide as saucers. “Oh my god!”

“What?” Kyle says, dropping his fork. “What’s wrong?”

Michelle points at your neck. “It’s….it’s gone. Your tattoo. It’s gone.”

“What are you talking about?” Kyle asks, leaning over the table to get a closer look. “Holy shit! Where did it go?”

You look to Zeik as Raymond stands up and comes around the table to investigate. You can feel his breath on your neck as he moves closer to look at the place where your tattoo used to be.

“What the fuck?” Raymond says. “Oh! I get it, y’all tried to fake us out with one of those stick-ons! I knew your preppy ass wasn’t ready for real ink.”

“I’m not preppy!” you protest out of reflex to their old stand-by taunt. 

“It wasn’t a fake,” Zeik says, looking around the table. “I did the ink myself.” 

They all look back at him in stunned silence.

“So how do you explain this?” Michelle asks. “Is it some kind of skin condition?”

“Ooo, I’ve heard of that!” Kyle says, pointing at her. “It’s rare, but some people have trouble keeping tattoos. I forgot the name of it.”

He’s frowning up at you, thinking hard and you begin to feel guilty. Like you’re lying by omission.

“It’s not a skin condition,” you confess. “I have something to tell you all. It’s really important, but I need you to promise that it will not leave this room.”

Raymond takes his seat again and they all continue to look at you in anticipation. You glance at Zeik and he gives you an encouraging nod.

Here goes nothing. 

“My name isn’t Michael O’Conner. It’s Steve Rogers. I was born in 1918 and served in the Army during World War II... as Captain America.”

Michelle’s eyes dart back and forth between you and Zeik. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Zeik shakes his head. “No, Captain America has incredible healing abilities. He got the tattoo to prove it to me and Floyd.”

“Captain America is dead,” Kyle says with a challenge. “His plane went down in ‘45. My dad collected everything about him. He even has the comics. I’ve read all of that stuff and this isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing, Kyle,” you say, looking at him. “And I didn’t die. I was frozen somewhere in the Arctic for almost seventy years. Believe me, I am just as surprised as anyone to still be alive.”

“I don’t believe you,” Kyle says, his eyes hard. “Other than a disappearing tattoo, which by the way could be due to a skin or blood condition, do you have any way of proving what you’re saying?”

You comb your hand over your face, thinking. “I can lift the van.”

“Like the van Zeik drives?” Raymond asks incredulously. 

You nod. “Yes, that one.”

“Show us,” Raymond says suddenly. 

You rise from the table, and they all look up at you in surprise like they didn’t think you were going to actually do it. You hear them scrambling behind you as you walk out of the house. 

Zeik’s beat up and rusty van is sitting in the driveway and you walk to the front of it as they gather to watch. Zeik stuffs his hands in his pockets nervously while Michelle covers her mouth with both hands. Raymond cradles Blanca close as if bracing himself while Kyle has his arms crossed over his chest like he expects to be disappointed. 

You squat in front of the van and grab the sides around the hood, making sure to get a good grip. Inhaling, you bend your knees and just lift.

It is lighter than you expected, or maybe it is just the adrenaline and desperate need for their approval. At any rate, you raise the van off the ground easily, first by a few inches and then higher and higher until you’re staring at the grill.

You hear gasps and someone say ‘fuck’ as you hold it up. Then you put the van down gently and turn to face them.

They all look stunned, but you expected that. What’s really making you nervous is what comes next. 

“Is this real life?” Kyle asks, gaping at you. “Am I dreaming?” 

“You’re not dreaming. I’m real,” you say.

“You’re real,” he repeats slowly. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Like you’re the real Steve Rogers. That’s why you kept that baseball cap on so long,” A huge grin is taking over his face. “Oh my god.”

“Did you see that shit?” Raymond asks Zeik, hitting him in the chest.

“Yeah, I saw it,” Zeik says, smiling.

Raymond puts Blanca down, grips his head with both hands, and turns around to look at Michelle. “Yo! I can’t believe…. This motherfucker just lifted a whole ass van! With his bare hands! Just picked it up like… like he was working out at the gym. He’s like ‘you go play with your little dumbbells, I’ll be over here bench-pressing vans n’ shit! What the _fuck_?!”

Michelle starts laughing, and it quickly spreads to Kyle and Zeik. You try to bite back a smile, but it is a lost cause. 

“Why didn’t you tell us? When you first got here?” Michelle asks when the laughter dies down. 

“I was trying to keep a low profile,” you say. “I don’t want to be found. That’s why it’s really important you don’t tell anyone who I am.”

You give them an abridged version of the story you told Zeik and Floyd, focusing mostly on what happened after you woke up. You stress the nature of SHIELD’s business and how sneaky and tenacious they can be.

“Don’t worry, Steve, your secret’s safe with us,” Michelle says. “We promise.” She looks to Kyle and Raymond, silently demanding their agreement. 

“Real talk,” Raymond says. “I don’t care if it’s the government or the cops, I will fuck someone up if they try to come in and mess with any of y’all. I swear on my brother.”

While you find the promise and passion in Raymond’s voice extremely touching, it is also very concerning.

“I don’t want that, Ray,” you insist. “I don’t want anyone fighting or getting into trouble over me. That’s actually why I was thinking about leaving.”

“What?!”

“No!?”

“What the hell?”

They all shout at once. Michelle looks furious, Raymond is throwing his hands up, and Kyle has his hands on his hips. 

You roll your eyes as Zeik gives you a smug ‘I told you so’ smirk. But truthfully, you’re relieved and a little giddy. You’re still not sure how they feel about Captain America, but what’s important is that it hasn’t changed their feelings for you.

“I’m not leaving!” you have to shout to cut through their protests.

They quiet down.

“Zeik and I talked, and I’ve decided to stay. I want to stay. I just didn’t want this to disrupt your lives.”

“It won’t,” Michelle says emphatically. “We don’t even have to talk about it ever again.”

“There is one problem,” Zeik says. They all look at him with anxious expressions. “A woman from SHIELD showed up yesterday at the shop, looking for him.”

“Shit,” Kyle says.

You nod. “She said she wouldn’t bother me anymore, but I have no reason to trust that. I have to assume the worst - that they know where I am and that they’re coming back.”

“So, what are we going to do?” Michelle asks.

“For now, just go on doing what we’ve always done,” you say. “Nothing changes. If you see something strange or suspicious, call me immediately. If they come, then I’ll deal with it.”

“ _We’ll_ deal with it,” Raymond says, cracking his knuckles.

“Ray, these guys have guns and advanced combat training, ” you warn. “If they come to the house looking for me, do. not. engage. You hear me? That goes for all of you. I will leave right now before I see any of you get arrested or hurt because of me. So, if you can’t promise me you will not attempt to fight a trained federal agent, let me know now.”

They’re all giving you disgruntled looks but one by one they all nod and say, “I promise.”

“Promise,” Zeik says, walking closer to you. “But not engaging doesn’t mean I can’t evoke my rights. I still manage this place, so if they come snooping and asking about a friend, I will read them the riot act.”

You know from experience that a few sharp words could quickly escalate to something more serious. But you recognize the stubbornness in Zeik’s eyes and his defiant stance. Besides, you would do the same for all of them.

“OK,” you say, holding out your hand to him.

He scoffs as he looks down at your hand and pulls you into a tight hug. Three more bodies press in at all sides and you feel their arms wrapping around you. You close your eyes and breathe in the scent of Zeik’s hemp soap, Michelle’s floral perfume, Raymond’s citrus after shave, and Kyle’s fruity shampoo all mixed together.

It’s been a long time since you've been touched like this. You’ve almost forgotten what it felt like to be hugged. A surge of love and gratitude you weren’t ready for sweeps through every fiber of you and threatens to break you down. You try to take over the reins and push it down, stay in control. 

“It’s alright, Steve, we got you,” Zeik whispers. 

“We all got each other,” Michelle adds.

You exhale, relax into their embrace and just let go. There’s wetness on your cheeks and you can feel yourself shaking. But your family is still here; they have your front and your six. 

An hour later you and Zeik arrive at Floyd’s. He’s waiting with Lexy at the counter. 

“Good morning,” you say to both of them. Floyd’s mouth drops open wide when he gets a look at your neck.

“Morning, honey,” Lexy says with a wink. “Did you have a good night's sleep?”

You shrug. “No, but I did do a lot of thinking.”

“And what did you decide?” she asks.

“I think I’m gonna stick around here for a while,” you say, looking from her to Floyd.

Lexy claps. “Was hoping you’d say that.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” Floyd finally says. “You really are---” He closes his mouth and glances at Lexy and then back at you like he’s unsure if he should say anything.

“It’s OK,” you say. “I want Lexy to know too. Just in case they come back. I want everyone who may be affected to know what’s going on.”

“What should I know?” Lexy asks.

“Wait,” Floyd says. “Are we expecting any customers in the next hour?”

Lexy shakes her head. “Nope. We’re all free until 11.”

You watch as Floyd locks the door and replaces the “We’re Open” sign with the ‘We’ll be Right Back’ sign. 

“What’s going on?” Lexy asks, looking concerned.

Floyd pulls out one of the lounge chairs. “Lexy, darling, come have a seat. You’re gonna want to sit down for this.”

All in all, Lexy takes the news really well. She’s surprised but takes your word on everything. She says her cousin lives in Los Alamos, New Mexico and in 2011 he saw Thor destroy a giant metal monster in the center of town. Between that and the alien attack in New York, Lexy says nothing surprises her any more. Her only disappointment is that she didn’t get to see the tattoo.

“Don’t worry, I don’t think it’ll be the last one I get,” you say.

Zeik grins. “I knew it! You caught the bug. You like the pain, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” you say with a little smile.

“Ain’t no maybe about it,” Zeik says. “I saw your face. You were riding high on it.”

Floyd chuckles. “Who would have guessed Captain America gets a buzz off from getting ink.”

“Well, if you like the sting of a tattoo gun,” Lexy says. “I bet you’d get a kick out of getting pierced.”

Now that’s a new one. The thought of getting pierced never crossed your mind before. Probably because Lexy does all of her piercings in the back behind the curtain. Out of sight, out of mind. But now that it’s out there, you find the idea intriguing and you wonder if the pain will be different. 

“If I get pierced, I want it to mean something,” you say.

“Do you have something particular in mind?” Lexy asks.

You think of Bucky. He was never too keen on celebrating himself, except on his birthday. You can still picture him barging into your room early in the morning every March 10th. 

_Rise and shine, sleepyhead. You know what today is?_

“What’s the birthstone for March?” you ask.

“Aquamarine,” Lexy replies.

“Then that’s what I want. An aquamarine birthstone…. right here.” You point to your earlobe.

“That should be easy,” she says, lifting your chin to study your ears. 

“Can we do it now?” you ask, unable to contain your excitement.

Lexy grins. “Sure can.”

**July 2013**

This time when your birthday approaches, everyone knows about it. Floyd arranges fireworks on the front lawn of the hostel and huge cookout. Everyone’s there and you feel so damn lucky to be surrounded by so much love. There’s a lookout on the porch but it has been nearly two months and SHIELD has still yet to make an appearance. No one really thinks they’re coming any more.

Zeik finally lets you pick up a tattoo gun. You do your first ink on him as practice. He has you ink a small black bear on the inside of his wrist. When you ask why, he says bears represent family and strength. It turns out well. Soon after Floyd designates a workstation for you and you get your first customer. They have to sign an extra waiver just in case you fuck up. 

Your hands are sweaty but steady, and you get through it. Afterwards, the customer thanks you and gives you a big tip. Zeik grins like a proud father and you feel like maybe you can actually do this for a living. 

The Penstemons you plant in the garden this summer don’t last very long, so you try your hand at planting Pansies.

**September 2013**

The hot stickiness of summer still hovers in the air as the youth return to school again. Back to school means more crisis management in youth group. You and the others listen for cues that someone is being bullied, having trouble fitting in, or struggling in classes. You start to make your usual rounds, popping up where bullies hang out. Nothing too obvious, just as a little reminder to anyone who may want to harm your kids that there will be consequences.

The Arts & Crafts room becomes _the_ place to go when someone wants to talk about a situation they need advice on. If you’re not in the Arts & Crafts room, youth will still seek you out. Zeik declares that you are the most popular volunteer in the house. You wave it off like he’s being silly, but it still makes your heart dance. 

Zeik asks if you can coordinate the annual youth Halloween costume party. You take it a little too seriously and over plan a little (Michelle says a lot, but you disagree). Even though the pumpkin carving contest on the patio devolves into a food fight, the youth proclaim it a success. It is a lot to clean up but you’re proud of how it turned out.

Over the next few weeks there are many more things to celebrate. Raymond is promoted to assistant manager at the auto body shop. Michelle trains her largest cohort of new volunteers at the crisis center. Kyle announces he’s reducing his hours at the diner, so he can start a program in culinary arts at Southeast Community College next semester.

You continue to educate yourself and work on your craft. So far you haven’t made any egregious errors to embarrass Zeik or Floyd. Even if you still see problems in your finished work, the customers you work on leave glowing praise. Floyd thinks you have what it takes to make a real name for yourself in the business. Zeik reminds you not to forget who mentored you when you get famous. You don’t take either one of them seriously. You’re okay for a beginner, but you’re still a long way off from reaching their level. 

The weather turns colder and Thanksgiving arrives. This year the feast is at Floyd’s place, a one-story stone and brick rancher. You’ve never been there before, and you’re surprised at how small and quaint it is compared to the big farmhouse. Floyd lives with his partner, John. He’s a big man too, but not quite as big as Floyd. With contributions from the family, the spread on the Thanksgiving table is damn near overwhelming. Before anyone can take a bite though, Floyd says each person has to say one thing they’re thankful for, starting with you. That’s easy, of course. You’re thankful to be a part of this family, for each and every one of them and the way they’ve touched your life. Floyd says starting with you was a mistake; you set the bar too damn high. Everyone laughs. You end up eating until you’re completely stuffed. Afterwards, everyone helps pack up the food in preparation for a second feast to be held later in the week for the youth. 

Your sleep is more consistent and calmer these days. You still have nightmares about war and losing Bucky, but they’re less frequent. You also have good dreams now. Bucky is in a lot of those too. But not all of them. Sometimes you dream about things that have nothing to do with Bucky, like owning your own tattoo shop or running a school for aspiring artists. The first few times it happens you awake feeling like a self-centered prick, more concerned with your happiness than the memory of your best friend. You stare at the framed picture of you and Bucky that sits on your nightstand and silently berate yourself. 

You don’t do that much anymore. You still miss Bucky very much, but you also have a new life and a family that you love. There was a time when you thought there was no room for both; that this new life was pushing out necessary grief attached to Bucky’s memory. But now you understand that remembering Bucky doesn’t have to mean holding onto the pain. Stepping in to help when a kid gets bullied is honoring Bucky. Giving advice or just being there to listen is a way of remembering Bucky. And it feels good.

The Pansies you planted eventually die, and you decide to move on to Chrysanthemums.

**December 2013**

It is Christmas time again. The family decides to throw a big holiday youth party because it helps to be surrounded by people who aren’t bickering or pressuring them to be something they’re not. You coordinate a huge snowball fight that spans the entire field in front of the house. It starts off with four teams and turns into a free-for-all-every-person-for-themselves. You end up getting ambushed by four teenagers. You've never felt so damn happy about losing a fight.

The family decides to make Christmas dinner together and open the house to those who need a meal. It even gets written up in the paper. Even though you decline to be in the picture, you still share your family’s pride that you all are making a difference. 

In the garden, the time for Chrysanthemums comes to an end. You plant Heather to replace them. 

New Year’s Eve 2013 is spent at Floyd’s house again. Last New Year's was all about new beginnings. This year, you want to focus on growth and exploring what can be. Feeling inspired, you lift your glass high. Everyone takes your cue and does the same.

“To a new year and new possibilities,” you say.

“To new possibilities!” everyone cheers.

You’re really looking forward to 2014.

**February 2014**

The shop is slower during the winter months, so you let Zeik and Lexy pass the time by playing with your body. Whenever Zeik has free time and gets bored, he either redoes your neck tattoo, trying out different fonts and colors, or he will experiment with a different design on other parts of your body, like your arm or ankle. You get a whole sleeve of the Howlies on your right arm. When that fades, you get a picture of you and the Howlies on your back. That one was your favorite. It hurt so good and turned out beautifully. Zeik takes a picture of it before it can fade and prints it out on the house printer for you to keep. You take it out often. 

Getting pierced is a different experience altogether. It is usually over before you can enjoy it. They look great though and for some reason they last longer than the tattoos. You can actually feel the new skin pushing the earrings out. When that happens, you take them out before they fall, and store them until you can get another appointment with Lexy. You get five more ear piercings, one for each Howlie. Soon you have a whole column of metal lining your right ear. So, you get the other ear pierced to match it. After that ear fills up, you let Lexy pierce your face. You get two on your right eyebrow, two on the right side of your nose, and a bar in your tongue. The tongue piercing hurts really good. You look forward to getting it again. 

On the rare occasions when both your tattoo and all of your piercings are fresh, Michelle insists on taking pictures to ‘memorialize’ the moment. She always deletes them afterwards but not before sending a few to your new iPhone. You know it’s risky to keep the images. Zeik often reminds you Verizon cannot be trusted with personal information and SHIELD’s technology can easily detect your face, even through hair and metal. 

Still, you can’t seem to bring yourself to erase proof of this new person with a new life and purpose for living. He may go by the name of Michael O'Connor, but you know this is just another version of Steve Rogers. And you like this new version a lot. 

Sometimes though, usually after a bad dream, you try to imagine what Bucky would think of this new Steve. If he would cringe at all of the metal on your face or call you a dumbass for having the word ‘tree’ inked on your neck. Honestly, you have no idea how Bucky would react to you now and that only underscores his absence.

By the end of February, you’re officially licensed as a tattoo artist. The ink isn’t even dry on your certificate and you already have a growing clientele. You are earning quite a reputation for your unique designs, but especially for your cover-ups. You find it fulfilling to transform a really bad tattoo or scar tissue into something beautiful. 

You’re branching out into other types of service too. When you’re not at the shop or facilitating a youth group, you volunteer at the local soup kitchen. Sometimes you bring Michelle with you. You like to bring things from your garden. With Kyle’s help you’ve expanded your little patch from flowers to real food. You especially like to grow potatoes, tomatoes, bell peppers and lettuce. 

No one talks about SHIELD anymore, and Natasha doesn’t visit again. You don’t talk to Amanda either. Not for lack of trying though. You took the risk once and tried to check in with her, but her phone was disconnected. You wonder if she found out about Natasha’s visit.

Either way, it is probably for the best. You can’t really tell her anything without risking it getting picked up. So you tuck the memory of Amanda away along with the other parts of the life you left behind.

*

After living and working around Zeik for days on end, you and he have developed a special bond. Lately, you’re starting to consider that the two of you could be more than friends. Bucky will always be with you, but he’s dead now and you are starting to accept that means letting go. He’s not coming back, and you have a lot of life left to live. You think he’d be proud of this new life you’ve built, and that he would want you to have someone to share it with.

Zeik still blushes sometimes when you catch him looking, and more and more you find yourself looking back at him. You’re not sure when it will happen, but you’re working up the nerve to ask him out. 

**March 2014**

Soon the winter snow melts and the smell of spring approaching permeates the air. It has been nearly two full years since you first arrived in Lincoln. The family hosts a safe and sober ‘Spring Fling’ youth party. Queer youth from Lincoln and neighboring towns flock to attend. 

Kyle decorates the house in plastic flowers and palm trees and Michelle makes colorful mocktails with crazy straws. Zeik coordinates a karaoke sing-off in the living room that’s really popular while in the den Raymond supervises a Mario Kart 8 tournament. People are hanging off of the porch, talking and laughing, and on the back deck there’s an intense Go Fish game going. 

For this event, you stick to the Arts & Craft room. There’s still a few awkward kids who don’t feel quite comfortable with all of the frenzy of a big party. You sit on the loveseat and draw, quietly supervising as one of the new boys ‘blings’ out his converse and a couple of girls cuddle on the bean bag in the corner. 

Suddenly a high pitch scream pierces the tranquility. You drop your sketchpad and run towards the back of the house where the scream came from.

Everyone rushes there to see what’s happening, so you have to push your way through the crowd. Zeik and Michelle are walking up from the garden with Cassie, one of the older girls who has been coming to youth group for years.

Cassie’s shaking, and her face is red and streaked with tears. 

“It’s OK, Cassie, it’s OK.”

“What happened?” you ask. “Is she hurt?”

Cassie shakes her head. “No…”

Michelle looks up at you. “I think she’s just freaked out.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Cassie says. “I’m not hurt. I promise. I just…I saw something.”

She looks up at you and then away, like she’s suddenly embarrassed. 

“It’s alright, you can tell us,” Zeik says. “What did you see?”

She looks over the garden, towards the forest behind it. You follow her gaze, narrowing your eyes to scan the landscape.

“Over there?” you prompt.

She nods. “I know you told us not to go through the garden, but I just needed a break from all of the noise. I was just going to circle it and then come right back.”

“That’s fine. It’s totally fine,” Michelle rushes to say. “We’re not mad at you. Just tell us what you saw, hun.”

Everyone is silent as they wait for her answer, and you instantly feel bad for putting her on the spot. 

“You want to come inside. Have a seat? We can make you some tea,” you offer.

Michelle nods and rubs Cassie’s arm.

“No,” Cassie says, shaking her head. “I want to go. I wanna go home. Please.”

Now you’re really alarmed. What the hell did she see to spook her like this? 

“We’ll take you home, Cassie,” Zeik says. “Don’t worry. Can you just tell us what you saw? We need to make sure everyone is safe.”

She points out, over the garden towards the thick brush of woods at the back. “There’s a man...in there.”

Your blood turns cold and you meet Zeik’s eyes. It could be anybody. A pedophile or murderer, or maybe something else. Like a SHIELD operative.

Michelle hugs Cassie tight to her chest. “Can you describe what he looked like?”

“I couldn’t see his face,” she says with a shaky breath. “But….”

“But what?” you ask as you stare into the deep dark pockets between the trees in the forest. You can’t see anything, but the brush is thick. There could be a person back there, watching.

Cassie doesn’t respond to your question, so you look down. Her eyes are wide with fear as she glances around. Then she reaches out to pull at your shirt.

You follow her pull until you’re eye level with her. “What is it?”

She leans in close to whisper in your ear, “He had a metal arm.”


	10. Reunion

You cut the party short. No one complains. In fact, they’re all anxious to leave. One of the youths suggests calling the cops, and Zeik lies and says that he will but first he wants to make sure everyone gets home safely. You know it is a lie from the way he looks at you. You also know that if this man in the woods has anything to do SHIELD, which you suspect he does, calling the cops will only make things worse.

Zeik takes a van of youth back to their homes, Floyd is called to take another truckload full, and the others carpool. 

As people start to disperse, you and Raymond team up to search the woods. Raymond brings his baseball bat and you bring your bare hands. 

You walk with him side by side until you reach the end of the garden’s nicely manicured rows. It is all wild grass at the edge of the forest. Dense, but not too dense for a man to walk through and hide out.

“Wanna split up?” Raymond asks. “You take this side, and I’ll take the other?”

You scan the expanse of the forest. If this is a trained operative looking for Captain America, then Raymond will not be able to handle them, no matter how skilled he is with that bat.

“No,” you reply. “Let’s just stick together. I’ll watch your six, and you keep an eye on mine.”

He looks confused for a moment and then he points at you. “Call of Duty! You mean watch your back, right?”

You suppress a groan. “Yeah.”

You let Raymond lead because he knows this forest. He says when he first came to the house, he and Zeik used to come out here to chop wood. You take note of the way the brush thins out where the forest floor seems worn down to dirt, instead of rock and soil. Raymond says this pathway is a left-over from the indigenous Pawnee tribe. Even though you Googled the Pawnee tribe after Zeik told you about the land, you listen as Raymond gives you their entire history. Suddenly he freezes and turns back to look at you.

“What is it?” you ask sharply.

“I totally forgot,” Raymond says. “Haven’t been in the forest in a long time, but there’s an abandoned Pawnee hut, back there.”

“Where?”

He motions ahead. “At the very end of this trail. It’s pretty deep in.”

You nod and move past him to take the lead. “Let’s go, and stay close.”

Walking as fast as you can without losing Raymond, you keep your eyes out for the slightest movement. But it is a forest and full of all sorts of sounds - birds singing, the thump of pine cones falling to the ground, and the rustling of branches as squirrels jump between trees. Every couple of minutes the crack of a branch stops you and Raymond, but it is always off-trail and in different places. The likelihood of it being a person seems low.

You’re deep in the woods when your phone starts vibrating in your back pocket. 

“We’re both buzzing,” Raymond says, pulling out his.

You stop to look at your phone. It is a group message from Zeik.

_Family meeting now! Everyone back to the house ASAP!_

Both of you look up at the same time and then sprint all the way back down the path. As you run, your mind is a tangle of scenarios that would warrant Zeik sending out a group text like that. Up until now the only group texts you’ve received are silly memes and an occasional selfie. 

What if the man Cassie saw earlier broke into the house? Could the house be surrounded by SHIELD agents right now? Is someone hurt? 

Raymond can’t possibly keep up with your pace, so you try to slow down. Finally, he catches up, breathing hard.

“Damn man, you’re fast as hell. You weren’t even really running, were you?”

“No, not really.” 

You glance up ahead where the forest is thinning out and the garden is in plain sight. You don’t see any strange cars or people around the house but your pulse is still jumping with concern.

“Zeik!” you call as soon as you step foot into the house. 

“In here!” Zeik calls back from the living room. “Is Raymond with you?”

“Yeah, I’m here! What’s going on?”

When you two reach the living room, you see the whole family gathered around the television. Michelle is hugging her knees to her chest and Kyle isn’t really blinking, his eyes are glued to the screen. Zeik looks up at you nervously like he has something bad to tell you.

“What’s going on? We rushed back,” you say, a little impatiently.

Zeik points at the television, where a Breaking News banner is posted at the bottom. Right above the banner is a large white headline:

MASSACRE AT SHIELD- Over 20 people found dead 

The running transcript says that the identified deceased include the entire SHIELD Strike team, a quarter of the air guard, and several non-field agents. You stare at the screen, completely dumbfounded. 

“Turn it up, please,” you say in a hoarse whisper.

Michelle picks up the remote and turns up the volume. The news anchor announces that whoever is responsible for the massacre may have also killed the former Secretary of Defense and Head of the World Security Council, Alexander Pierce. 

There’s a collective gasp throughout the living room.

You lean in, your mind racing. Where is Amanda? Is she one of the dead? What about Natasha and Fury? 

“This is...disturbing,” the news anchor continues. “But according to authorities it appears that the massacre took place over several days without any detection. The bodies were carefully hidden. What they found may only be the tip of the iceberg.” 

Zeik gets up off the floor to take a seat next to you. “Are you alright? This must be hard for you to watch.”

“I’m... fine,” you say numbly.

Zeik doesn’t look convinced. 

“So far, no terrorist organization has come forward to take responsibility for this attack, and investigators are considering the possibility that it may have been an inside job. For the time being all SHIELD business and activity has been suspended.”

They’re all looking at you now.

“Does this mean you might be in danger?” Kyle asks.

You stand up and look at everyone. “No, but as long as I’m here, you all may be.”

“Steve---” Zeik starts.

“I don’t think the man in the woods was a coincidence,” you say firmly. “D.C. is less than a day’s time from here by bus. Even faster if you have a car. Most of those people were killed earlier in the week. That means the person or persons responsible could be here now.”

One by one, they rise to their feet to stand with you, alarm and concern on their faces. 

“Please don’t say you’re thinking about leaving again,” Michelle says.

You shake your head. “No. Whoever is in those woods knows where I am. I’m not going to leave you all defenseless. I need you to get in the van and go to Floyd’s for the night.”

“No!”

“We’re not leaving you!”

“Please!” you shout, silencing them all. “Whoever is out there, is probably here for me. I will call or text once I’ve swept the entire forest. I promise.”

“If someone is out then you’ll be all alone,” Zeik’s voice is strained and it makes you feel terrible for putting him in this position.

“I’ll be fine,” you try to reassure them all. “Whoever it is, probably is not enhanced. I have the advantage.”

“What if they have a gun? You can still get shot.” Raymond says. 

You turn and grab Raymond’s bat from where he set it down and then move to the kitchen where the huge black trash bin sits in the corner. You grab the lid off and hold it like a shield across your body. As you make your way to the back door, they’re all on your heels asking ‘where you’re going’ and ‘they want to come too.’ 

You pivot on your feet and they nearly crash into each other.

“Go to Floyd’s and lock everything up before you leave, ” you insist. “I mean it. That’s an order. And do not follow me into the woods. I’ll call when things are clear. Understand?”

They give dirty looks but nod and say ‘yes’.

You walk out to the garden, pausing at the ‘Family Garden’ sign to look back. They’re all crowded in the doorway with worried expressions. 

“Floyd’s. Now,” you say. 

The back door closes and you hear the lock click. You adjust your grip on the bat, and tuck the trash can lid against your chest and take off running on the straightest path to the forest. When you get to the edge, you stop abruptly. Running through the brush will create a lot of noise, alerting anyone in there of your presence. 

You’ll have to keep your feet light and try to be quiet. 

Something white enters your peripheral vision. You look down and see Blanca looking up at you. 

“Go back to the house,” you whisper fiercely.

She’s not budging.

Ugh.

She crouches down low and stares into the forest.

“Yeah, I know,” you say. “It’s kinda creepy, huh? Stay out here and keep watch for me, OK?”

Thankfully, she doesn’t take another step and watches you as you approach the woods. The sun is getting low in the sky, but there’s still enough light to see the path Raymond showed you. You walk along it as stealthy as you can, pausing every now and then to listen.

It feels like the path goes on forever. You’re surprised at how large the forest actually is and how much further you have to go. It is a little unnerving. But you press on until the worn dirt path turns to rubble. Up ahead about thirty meters the trees thin out and you see the rounded top of some kind of structure.

You tip-toe carefully, hoping the person you’re looking for is waiting in there and that you can catch him by surprise. Just in case though, you raise the trash can lid to cover your chest, and hold the bat at the ready to take a swing. 

The hut looks like a giant ant hill rising from the earth. The body is mostly rounded and made with packed dirt, rocks, and branches. Wild grass grows all around it and covers a lot of the bottom half. The entrance is set off by tree wood columns on each side of the opening. You can’t see anything; it’s dark in there.

You tighten the grip on the bat and take a breath before moving forward. At the threshold of the opening, you search for shadows. There’s nothing. As you move further inside, you see a sleeping bag, canteen, notebook, and a beat up backpack. 

You frown down at the items. Whoever is using this hut left everything on them inside. Which means, they’re probably very close by or coming back soon.

Instantly, the hairs on the back of your neck start to rise. Someone is behind you, you can feel the weight of their stare on you. They must be trained to be so stealthy in the middle of a forest. You pull the bat up, raise the lid in front of you, ready to strike.

“You should have called first. I know for a fact your mother taught you better than to drop by unannounced.”

You know that voice. That cool lazy drawl. It doesn’t make sense to be hearing it right here, right now. You haven’t heard it in nearly seventy years. Sometimes you wonder if you’ve forgotten its unique timbre or if the drawl was really that Brooklyn. But it was. 

It _is…_

You whirl around and gasp. “Bucky?”

The man standing in front of you is bulkier than your best friend, and he has the kind of rugged five o’clock shadow Bucky religiously avoided. His jeans are soiled with dirt and the left arm of his Henley is rolled up. He’s cradling a few logs in his arm. His metal arm. Just like Cassie described. His hair is sort of hanging in his face, but not enough to obscure his eyes. Those ice blue eyes are the same color you’ve searched every Lincoln paint store for because those eyes haunt your dreams every night. They are the most beautiful blue eyes you’ve ever seen. And they are more than familiar to you, they are a part of your history. 

So why are they staring back at you now?

Impossible. You must be hallucinating. 

“Hey,” he says, watching intently. 

“Bucky…” you say again.

He nods slowly, his eyebrows climbing, and then a small but oh so familiar smirk appears on his lips. “You know, no one’s called me that in a very long time.”

You drop everything in your hands and stare back at him.

Bucky looks down at what you dropped and frowns. “Did you really come out here all alone with a bat and plastic trash can lid?” 

You huff, still in shock, “Yeah. That’s all I had.” 

Those eyes and disapproving frown, the rhetorical question laced with exasperation concerning your recklessness, it is all Bucky Barnes. And he’s alive. He’s alive and looking right at you. 

You rush forward, desperate to pull him into a hug. But he flinches before you reach him and clutches the firewood closer in his metal fist. It physically hurts how much you want to touch him. Still you force yourself to keep your hands to yourself. 

“Um, sorry,” you say, mentally face-palming yourself for being so presumptuous. It has been almost seventy years. People change, especially over that amount of time. Aside from the metal arm and long hair, it doesn’t appear Bucky’s aged much, but you don’t even know where he’s been or what he’s been up to. Suddenly you have so many questions.

“No, it’s….its been a while since anyone’s...” He looks away like he’s struggling with something. It only makes you want to hug him more. 

Slowly he puts down the wood. Then he straightens and holds out both arms, rigid and awkward, like he’s imitating what he used to do.

“Come here, punk,” he says in a stilted voice. It is all so strange. The Bucky you knew was so effortless smooth and a natural hugger.

But maybe he’s out of practice with giving hugs. Until recently, you were too. You rush forward and wrap your arms around him. He’s stiff as a board and this definitely feels different from how he used to hug you. 

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now that Bucky is here. Alive. You hold on, inhaling the scent of him. He smells like the forest, sweat, rain, and a musk so distinctive it can only be Bucky’s.

You hold him for a long time, and he relaxes into it little by little until he’s embracing you now in a way that reminds you a thousand hugs from _before._

There’s no telling how long the hug goes on, but when Bucky finally pulls back, there are tears clouding your eyes. But they’re not so thick that you can’t see that Bucky’s eyes are wet too. 

“You haven’t changed a bit. Still a sap,” he grits out, his voice affected. 

You smile. “You’ll have to excuse me, I didn’t expect to run into my dead best friend.”

“Who says he’s alive?” There’s no smile or laugh in his voice. Bucky’s eyes dim as a shadow falls over his face. He takes a step back and you wonder how he can be here when you saw him fall.

“You survived,” you gasp as realization strikes you. “The fall...you survived and I….I just left you there. All this time, I thought you were--- but you weren’t. I never went back. I never even searched...oh god,” you barely get the last of it out before completely breaking down. You heave with the nausea swirling in your stomach. 

Bucky reaches out with his flesh hand and pulls you in again. 

“I’m so sorry, Bucky. I’m sorry...I’m sorry…”

You can’t stop apologizing. It is so useless now. Where has he been? What was done to him? He must have felt like you abandoned him. Some best friend you are.

“Steve, stop ...please...Steve ...please stop apologizing,” he says in an agonized voice.

You really need to get it together, asshole. Stop blubbering. This isn’t about you and your guilt. It is not Bucky’s responsibility to make you feel better about what you did or didn’t do. God knows what he’s been through. 

You scrub your face hard and try to school it into some approximation of composure, all while berating yourself.

“I never stopped thinking about you. This whole time... I’ve missed you so much.”

Bucky’s brow is deeply furrowed, like every word you say is hurting him. 

You draw closer. “Where have you been, Buck? What…. what happened to you?”

He blinks and then his eyes fall like he’s ashamed or embarrassed. 

You wait him out as he closes his eyes like he’s fighting some private war with himself. Then those stunning ice blue irises are staring back at you again. There’s so much anguish in them. You’ll do anything to get rid of it.

“You know what, it doesn’t even matter,” you say quickly. “You don’t have to tell me anything right now. I’m just glad you’re here. That you were able to find me.”

He nods slowly, watching your face as the pieces fall together and new questions begin to form.

“Bucky….”

“Yes?”

You narrow your eyes. “ _How_ did you find me?”

Bucky looks off the side, like he’s afraid to look you in the eye. The massacre on the news pops into your head. It’s an ugly thought and you quickly push it away. Whatever happened in D.C. has nothing to do with Bucky. It can’t.

“I was supposed to kill him,” he says softly.

“What?” you ask, hoping you heard him wrong. 

“Fury. I was supposed to kill him. That was my mission. We had agents on the inside, in the tech department. They hacked into his laptop to fed me intel so I could track him, plan it out.”

You hear what Bucky’s saying, but it doesn’t make sense. He’s talking about it so casually too, like you asked him about the weather. Your stomach begins to turn.

“I was going through his cloud data and found a file,” he continues. “There were pictures. Your face, before and after the serum. It was like it caused a crack, and then the crack got bigger and bigger until it all came back. So many memories of you. I didn’t know who I was, but I knew I wasn’t always what they said I was.” 

You have a terrible gut feeling bubbling in your gut. “You were ordered to kill Fury? So you were in D.C recently?” 

Bucky nods slowly, looking down at the dirt.

“Like, last week?”

Bucky nods again.

You’re digging your nails into your palms now, close to drawing blood. “Those people on the news...the massacre. Bucky...was that you?” 

“Yes.”

You swallow hard and ask the question you don’t want to ask but need to know. “You said ‘we’ and ‘they’. Who were you talking about, Buck? Who gave you the order to kill Fury?”

“Hydra,” Bucky says as he finally looks up with a cold dead stare.

*

Your mouth goes dry and a cold numbness spreads over your body. Hydra should be defunct. Gone. But they aren’t. All this time they’ve been spreading like a virus within the body of SHIELD. And Bucky’s been working for them. 

It’s like a bad nightmare. Worse than seeing Bucky falling from the train. _You_ caused this. _You_ abandoned him and left him to this fate.

“Steve…”

Not only did you ‘die’ for nothing, but you let the singularly most evil organization in the world turn your best friend into… into….. 

“Steve!”

You blink and look at Bucky’s exasperated face. 

“God, you’re in your head, beating yourself up, aren’t you?”

“I let them get you. This is my fault,” you say in horror.

“You didn’t _let_ them do anything,” Bucky says, his brow pinched in familiar irritation. “We were on a moving train. We had a mission. That was our job. We both knew the risks going in. If you had come back looking for me, they probably would have killed you, or caught you and then we’d both have blood on our hands.”

You shake your head, anger fast on the heels of your guilt. “I already have blood on my hands,” you fume. “I’m gonna _kill_ them. I’m gonna find each and every one of them and---.”

“I already took care of that, pal.”

The implications of what Bucky’s saying stuns you into silence. You mentally replay everything you heard on the news.

“All of those SHIELD agents… the Strike team… the airmen… Alexander Pierce?”

“All Hydra,” Bucky says.

You’re mind races with new questions. “What about Fury? Amanda? Natasha?”

Bucky shakes his head. “No on Fury. I didn’t kill anyone named Amanda. And Natasha is… complicated but she’s definitely not Hydra.”

You breathe a sigh of relief and then frown. “Pierce was head of the World Security Council.”

“Yeah, and also a high ranking Hydra leader,” he says. “He was the one...I used to follow his orders.”

It just doesn’t seem real. How could this happen?

“I never second guessed orders before,” Bucky continues. “Or at least I don’t remember second guessing. They fried my brain, Steve.” He laughs then. It drips with bitterness. “ _That_ I do remember. There was a chair...they….” He stops and closes his eyes again. “Anyway, after I saw your file, I was stumped. Tried to get back on track, but the more I thought about it, the more I remembered. I abandoned my assignment and went searching for more information about you...I even visited that exhibit at the Smithsonian…”

“I’m not sure how accurate that exhibit is,” you say in distaste. 

You’ve been trying hard to ignore any news or information about that damn exhibit. Nobody consulted you about it (not that they could if they wanted to), so you doubt most of it is true. You consider it a shrine to fictional character.

Bucky shrugs. “Some of it was bullshit. But not all of it. It jogged a few memories. Gave me more information about who I used to be.”

“Good,” you say, genuinely glad it was of some use to Bucky. 

He looks past you then, to the other side of the hut. It’s what he used to always do when he wanted to tell you something difficult.

You brace yourself.

“Once I realized what they’d done,” he says. “I went to Pierce’s house. Told him I knew who I really was, what they did to me. He didn’t even look scared. You know what he said?”

You shake your head.

Bucky scowls. “He said ‘So? We made you into something great. Before us, you were nothing but a foot soldier for a meaningless cause.’ He asked me what I planned to do without Hydra. Did I think I could just go back and blend into society and make new friends? Did I expect the world to forget about what I did? Then he laughed in my face. And I just...snapped. I broke his neck and hung him by his necktie from the rafters in the garage.”

Even as Bucky clenches his metal fist while talking about killing Pierce, you find it hard to picture. This is not the kind, protective Bucky you grew up with, the Bucky you honor through your service to the youth groups and the homeless. Sure, you’ve seen him kill plenty of Nazis as a sniper, but even then, he hardly ever talked about it.

“Afterwards, I went into his office, cracked his file cabinet open, and looked for anything I could find to fill in the gaps about who I was.” Bucky sighs wearily. “I ended up finding a lot more than I bargained for. I came across the reason they brought me out. They wanted me to kill Fury so they could launch Project Insight.”

You gasp. “I’ve heard of that. That’s the new defense weapon up for congressional review. Are you saying it’s for Hydra?”

Bucky smirks. “Not anymore. Not after what I did.”

“What did you do?”

“Project Insight was designed to kill millions of people, from the sky,” Bucky explains.

“What?” you gasp, stunned by the sheer scope of Hydra’s horrific intentions.

“I couldn’t let that happen,” Bucky says. “So I took pictures of the plans and then emailed them from Pierce’s phone to every member of the security council. The congressional review was cancelled within the hour.”

You exhale in relief. “That’s brilliant, Buck.”

He nods, but he’s no longer looking at you. He’s drawing in on himself, hunching over. 

You stare at him in concern.

“I found something else…” he says softly.

You see the way his lips pinch and how his flesh hand shakes. You’re scared to ask, but you need to know.

“What?” you ask.

Slowly Bucky’s eyes rise to meet yours. “Other files. On different projects. One of them was labeled “The Asset”. It was about me, that’s what…. What they used to call me.”

You shudder. “What did it say.”

Bucky’s face goes neutral. “I’ll let you read it for yourself...I took it. And then I texted Sitwell from Pierce’s phone.”

Your eyes go wide. “Jasper Sitwell? I sat in a few SHIELD meetings with him. He was--”

“Hydra,” Bucky finishes. “Pierce’s #1. I ordered him to produce a full list of every Hydra member working at SHIELD headquarters. Said it was for a special security protocol being developed.”

You lean in, spellbound and honestly impressed that Bucky did that after what he’d just emerged from. 

“Did he do it?”

Bucky smirks, it looks sinister . “Of course. He was a yes-man,” he says. “Once I got the list, I started picking them off, one by one. Stored the bodies in discrete places so I could get through them all without interruption. I saved Sitwell for last. By the time the first bodies started to stink, I was already in Lincoln.”

The way he talks about it sounds so detached and so methodical. It’s hard to reconcile those eyes you recognize with the assassin he’s describing. 

“What if they come looking for you?” you ask, concerned about his safety, and your family’s. 

“They won’t,” he says matter-of-factly. “The D.C. cell is pretty much dead. Without Pierce, anyone who may be left has no direction. They wouldn’t be able to get a lead anyway because I destroyed everything in Fury’s cloud and the tech guys who hacked it. No one but Fury knows you’re here. If they can’t find you, they’ll never find me.”

“ _Natasha_ knows I’m here. She’s probably the one who told Fury about me. And if they both can find me---”

“It’s been two years, Steve. And no one’s come looking for you here.” 

“Maybe they were saving the information as a backup or leverage,” you say.

Bucky gives a half-shrug. “Or maybe they just like you.”

It’s hard to accept both Fury and Natasha protecting your location out of respect for your request to be left alone. Two years ago, you would have scoffed at such a suggestion, but the evidence is hard to deny. 

“Maybe,” you murmur, taking a good look at him. 

There are bags under his eyes, and his hair is kind of greasy. But he’s here. 

“Bucky...I---”

“Don’t….” he says.

“Don’t what?” you ask. 

“Apologize again. I didn’t come here for that,” Bucky says with a pained expression. “I came because...because you’re the only thing that makes sense in my head right now.” 

He says looking down at the ground like he’s frustrated. 

“I’m glad you did,” you say. “You don’t have to stay out here. We have a hostel---”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bucky says quietly. 

“The people here, they’re good people,” you continue, trying to make your case. “You don’t have to worry about them calling the authorities. They’re not like that.”

Bucky huffs. “Do you really think it’s a great idea for me to be around ‘good people’ right now?”

“Yes,” you say without hesitation. “ _You’re_ a good person, Buck. Those people you killed in D.C, were Hydra. They deserved---”

“Steve, please...stop,” Bucky says, holding up his metal hand. “Before you try to rationalize what I did, I need you to read something.”

You watch as he stands up and goes to retrieve his backpack. He pulls out a brown file held together by a thick rubber band.

“Here,” he says, handing it to you.

When you move to remove the rubberband, he holds up his hand. “No. Not in front of me. Read it on your own, somewhere else.”

You thought your broken heart was on the mend, but those words fracture it in ways you didn’t think was possible. You and Bucky used to share everything, (well if you discount not telling him you’re in love with him), and now he can’t even be in the same room when you read about what happened to him. 

You want to tell him he has nothing to feel ashamed or embarrassed about; that you’ll love and accept him regardless.

But he’s already turned away from you, focused on the logs in the small fire pit in the center of the hut. “Go and read the file. We’ll see if you still want me to stick around after that.”

“Of course I will,” you insist.

“You don’t know that!” Bucky exclaims. 

“I don’t care what’s in this damn file,” you say, holding it up. “Nothing in here is gonna change my mind about you.” 

Bucky shakes his head, and continues to arrange the wood. It doesn’t take ten minutes to arrange firewood. He’s shutting down. You’re not ready to walk away though. Not after all the time you’ve both lost.

“Bucky…”

“What?” His voice is weary.

You glance at the scant light coming from the open doorway. “I can’t just leave you out here like this. Do you need anything? Have you eaten?”

“I can’t….” Bucky sighs. “They fed me intravenously, so eating is another thing I have to get used to again. But don’t worry about it, I’m working on it. I have enough protein bars to get through the week.”

You grimace. Intravenous feeding? What the hell did Hydra do to him? And protein bars? Oh hell no. 

New anger flares, bright and hot causing you to nearly bend the folder as you curl your hand tighter. 

“I’ll bring you some real food. You can nibble on it when you get hungry,” you say firmly. “Anything you need or want, just let me know.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says in a resigned tone, and now you really do feel like an annoying fly. “Goodnight, Steve.” 

The way he says it leaves no room for any more questions or even an attempt at conversation. As much as it hurts to turn away, it’s what he wants right now. 

You begin to walk backwards, unable to keep your eyes off of him. It’s hard to quell the irrational fear that if you turn around, he’ll run, or just disappear into thin air.

“I can come back later tonight…”

“No,” Bucky says firmly. “Please don’t come out here after dark. I don’t think I’d react well to that.”

“Fine, I’ll be back tomorrow morning. I’ll bring you breakfast…..” He doesn’t say no to that and you take that as a win. “Will you still be here?” you ask, unable to help yourself.

Finally, Bucky turns his head to look up at you. He looks tired in the low light of the dying sun, but he still gives you a small smile and that gives you more hope than you thought possible. 

“Yeah. I’ll be here.”

“Thank you,” you say. 

“Don’t forget your bat and ...trash can lid,” he says, and you can hear a sliver of teasing in his words. 

“I’ll leave them here with you, just in case” you say. 

Bucky pointedly glances around the hut with his patent ‘are you kidding me’ expression you recognize like the back of your hand. It’s true the hut is very small and the trash can lid is huge. Point taken.

You pick up the trash can lid, put the file in it, and grab the baseball bat with your other hand. 

“That’s no way to hold your shield, Steve,” Bucky says. Even in the dim light, Bucky’s eyes seem to brighten as he smirks up at you. 

Just to see it draws a smile out of you.

It feels familiar and easy. Reassured that perhaps things will be alright, you bid him goodnight and turn to walk back up to the house. Bucky said he would be here tomorrow and that’s enough for now. A lot of things have changed, but one thing you’re certain of - Bucky always keeps his promises.


	11. Full Disclosure

When you emerge from the hut, the sun has already begun to sink into the earth. There is barely enough light to see the path back. Despite what Bucky said, you look around and listen out for anything suspicious. 

You’ll check the perimeter tomorrow, just to make sure. You also need to bring Bucky some blankets, and food, and lots of water. Was he hurt? You didn’t see any blood or injuries, but you’ll make sure to assemble a First Aid kit for him just in case. 

When you reach the house, you put Raymond’s bat next to his bike and the trash can lid back in its rightful place. In the kitchen you stand looking out the small window. It is nearly twilight and Bucky’s all alone in the forest. You hate that you can’t see or hear him, but you can’t deny the overwhelming sense of comfort it brings to know that he’s alive and close by. 

You pull out your cell phone and open it to the group text. 

_Everything is clear. It’s safe to come back._

A second after you press ‘send’, your phone starts vibrating. It’s Zeik. You take a deep breath and put the phone to your ear. He wants to know what happened. You tell him that you didn’t find anything or anyone that poses a threat. 

You go upstairs and tuck Bucky’s file in your top dresser drawer, then gather extra blankets and your pillow. You stuff some extra clothing into your old duffel bag, and bring all of it down to put into the family’s blue camp wagon near the utility closet. 

Twenty minutes later, you hear the crunch of the van rolling up the driveway. When they come into the house, they all circle you, asking questions. Did you see anything suspicious or weird? What about the man Cassie saw? Should they go back in the morning to check again?

“Did you walk down to the end of the path?” Raymond asks. 

Michelle and Kyle’s eyes both go wide as they exclaim they forgot all about the hut. Zeik gives you a funny look and repeats Raymond’s question.

“Um, yeah. I went out there,” you say. 

“And?” Raymond and Zeik prompt.

You rub the back of your head and mumble something.

“What?” Zeik asks.

You huff. “I said, I didn’t find anything threatening.”

Zeik narrows his eyes. “What did you find then?”

They’re all quiet now and staring at you.

“Look…. it’s not what we thought,” you explain. “There is...something, but it’s not a threat to us. That’s all I can say right now.”

This launches a dozen more questions, and they’re all shooting them at you at the same time, while Zeik stares at you with a deep frown. 

“Hey...hey!” you say to settle them down. “All you need to know right now is that we’re not in danger. Can you please trust me on this?”

They all exchange glances and reluctantly nod. 

“Also, I’m gonna have to ask that for now, for you to not go into the forest, or down that path.”

“There really is a man out there,” Michelle whispers.

“Do you know him?” Kyle asks.

You glance anxiously to Zeik, who purses his lips before holding up his hand to quiet them. 

“Guys, Steve asked us to trust him, so that’s what we’re going to do. I’m sure he will share with the class as soon as he can, right?” There’s a silent demand in his stare. 

You nod. “Yes, I promise. Soon. I just need to get some more information and to sort things out. You’ll be the first to know once I do.”

“No one ever tells me shit anyway,” Kyle says with a pout.

“Oh stop your whining, you big baby,” Raymond teases. 

“Goodnight, guys,” you say.

They all say goodnight, giving you serious ‘side-eye’ as Raymond calls it. You feel terrible not being forthcoming, but Bucky’s privacy comes first, and you don’t want to do anything that will run him off. 

Zeik remains in the kitchen, leaning against the refrigerator, his head tilted back as he stares at you. 

“Now that everyone’s gone, tell me what’s going on,” he says.

You shake your head. “I just told you. I have to sort it out, and then---”

“Is this related to SHIELD or not?”

You turn your head and stare out of the kitchen window towards the forest, trying to decide if you should give him at least that much. 

“Yes,” you finally admit. “But that’s all I can say for now.”

You look back at him, and see the apprehension on his face. 

“Have I ever made a promise I didn’t keep?” you ask.

Zeik slowly shakes his head.

“Then please...trust me. The person out there isn’t going to hurt us.”

Zeik exhales slowly. “OK.” He throws up his hands. “OK.”

“Thank you, Zeik.”

“Alright, well...goodnight, I guess,” Zeik says, giving you a long look before turning towards the stairs.

“Goodnight,” you say, staring after him as he climbs up. Once he’s gone, you go back to check the blue camp wagon for things you may have forgotten to pack. Food. Bucky needs good food. Even though he says he’s struggling to eat again, you hate the thought of him living off of protein bars. He also told you to read the file and leave him alone tonight. So you’ll honor his wishes. But before you go back out to see him tomorrow, you’ll make sure to pack him a nice breakfast.

*

The walk back up to your room feels like it takes forever. Probably because you’re walking very slow, trepidation eating at your belly. You want to know what happened to Bucky, you really do, but you know how Hydra works. You know that they are sadistic and cruel. You know they don’t care about human life and that they would care even less for a U.S. soldier who is notoriously linked to Captain America. You also know that whatever you read will be your fault because you didn’t go back to search for Bucky. You let him get caught. The guilt you wore like a cloak when you first came to this house is back, only now it feels like a boulder. 

There’s a heaviness in your feet as you climb the stairs and when you finally reach your room, it is with a great sense of dread. You open your door and Blanca darts inside. 

“Who invited you?” you ask her. 

She hops up onto your bed, and then lays her head down, watching you. 

“Nosy girl,” you mutter as you close your door and lock it. 

You stare at the dresser for so long, even Blanca looks over at it like she’s expecting something to pop out. 

OK, you’re being dramatic. 

Bucky is the one who went through this hell, and all you have to do is read about it. So read it. It's time to take your medicine and understand what you left him to endure.

You draw the brown file out of the top drawer, and sit down on your bed. Blanca stands up to push herself against you. You give her fur a good rub as you open the file. The first thing you notice is the writing. It’s all in Russian. That’s very disconcerting. 

Paperclipped to the bottom corner is a very old picture of Bucky in his formal sergeant uniform. Even though it is a black and white photograph, there’s still light in his eyes. His hair is perfectly coiffed with just enough pomade and although he’s not smiling, it looks like he could break into one at any minute. You touch the picture and then force yourself to look at the rest. 

Page two looks like an English translation of the first page. Flipping through the entire file, you see that the whole thing is compiled that way. Russian. English translation.

You start reading. 

Two pages in, you have to put the file down to expel your dinner. Four pages in, you have to stop to wipe your face because your tears threaten to ruin the ink. Seven pages in, you’re writing down the name of every single scientist, soldier, and assistant listed. 

By page ten, you’ve stop counting how many experiments and tests they’ve done on Bucky. You stop counting because the torture is so routine they’re not even keeping count anymore. They already know how to get what they want out of Bucky. 

But no matter what fucked up version of the serum they gave to him in Azzano, it could have never fortified Bucky with this kind of resilience. The knock-off serum may have helped him heal from Hydra’s inhuman physical experiments, but it is clear Bucky’s enduring spirit and iron will is the reason he survived

In 1945, he asked for you. They gave him electroshock until he was drooling and pissing himself.

When he finally regained consciousness, he asked for you again. Zola called it his “enduring flaw”. To break Bucky of this flaw, he told him you were dead. That was a mistake. Bucky killed two scientists and broke Zola’s hand before they were able to restrain him again. 

They kept him sedated after that, and started what Zola called “deep programming”. 

By 1948 they’d figured out how to reprogram his mind so he didn’t even know his own name. He still knew yours though. After wiping his mind, Zola put up a picture of you and asked if he knew who you were. 

Bucky started crying, and asked Zola how you died. Zola called the experiment a failure. From his notes, it appears he was very angry. They put Bucky back in cryo for a long time after that. 

When they took him out again and asked him what he remembered, he lied and said ‘nothing’. You know he lied because it was a trick. Zola had Bucky plugged up to a polygraph. They put up a picture of you and asked if he recognized it. When Bucky said no, the polygraph showed evidence of high deception. So they put him in the chair. Fried all memory of you out of him. At least for a little while.

They took him out of cryo in 1963 for a mission in Dallas, Texas. The mission itself is blacked out so you can’t read it. But what’s not blacked out is that Bucky tried to escape. When he returned, he was in chains. The notes indicated that while Bucky complied with mission orders, afterwards his encounter with “a small frail blonde boy” undid his programming. He stole a car and was on his way to New York when they caught him. 

_The Asset’s programming is especially vulnerable to corruption when memories related to his family and Captain Rogers are triggered._

Apparently Bucky had been triggered at least four times. The last time was in 1986 after an assignment in Sweden. Apparently the sight of a ferris wheel at Liseberg Park caused him to abandon his post. By the time they caught up with him, he’d almost made it to Coney Island. They kept him on ice for nearly five years after that. 

As sick as you are from reading the file, Bucky’s indestructible strong will sparks a new fire inside of you. You’ve always been optimistic about the perseverance of good over evil, and this only underscores that belief. 

Bucky Barnes, your best friend and the secret love of your life, is a goddamn miracle. Not only did he survive unspeakable torture, but he broke free of his programming again and again. 

You want to run outside right now and tell him how brave and amazing he is, and that you’re sorry again. But you know it will not be received well, especially in the dead of night.

There’s no way you’re going back to sleep though. So you read the file over again. 

*

You’ve read the complete file three times now. You’ve cried and cursed yourself and Hydra. Vowed bloody revenge and made plans for how to carry it out. Through it all, Blanca has snuggled up to you and tried to give you comfort. 

“You’re a good girl, thank you,” you tell her. 

She wrinkles her little nose and hops down from the bed to paw at the door. 

“Fine,” you say, cracking it open to let her out.

The birds are chirping now, and the sun is peeking just above the grass. You should be exhausted but your blood is jumping with adrenaline. 

There are no more tears left, just horrible guilt. But Bucky doesn’t want your apologies, he’s already made that clear. So when you go out to see him today, your plan is to pick up from wherever he wants you to. You hope he still wants friendship, but you don’t want to assume anything. 

There was a time when you wished for more. But now that idea feels gross and self-centered. You have a lot to make up for and that starts with putting aside your stupid romantic fantasies. Fuck your feelings. Stuff them back down, and lock them away. You’ve done it before, and now more than ever, it’s important you do it again. 

You hear the stairs creak and the bathroom door down the hall open and close. Slowly the sounds of morning in the house grow louder. Someone downstairs is rattling through pots and pans as the smell of bacon and coffee rises to the second floor. 

It is Kyle’s turn to make breakfast. That’s good. He’ll make something tasty and fancy you can take out to Bucky.

There’s a noticeable lack of conversation coming from downstairs. You hope it is because people still are getting dressed or taking their showers. But when you finally make it to the kitchen, you see everyone is already seated. They all look up at you, and say good morning, but it lacks the usual cheery enthusiasm.

Kyle made frittatas. 

“These look delicious,” you say, taking one with spinach and bacon in it. 

“I made extra, just in case you want to…” He does a little wave with his fork, and you don’t miss how he glances to Zeik or how Zeik glances at Raymond, and how Raymond and Michelle look at each other then back to their plates. 

You put down your fork and look around the table. “You’ve been talking about me. What’s on your mind?”

Kyle looks you right in the eyes. “The man in the woods. The one you loaded up the camp wagon for.”

Of course they saw that. 

“He’s a friend. An old friend,” you admit, because you have to give them something. “He’s been through a lot and he didn’t have anywhere else to go, but he’s a good man. That’s all I’m comfortable saying right now.”

“Old friend,” Zeik says. “Steve, you’re 95 years old and you just woke up like two years ago. Exactly how long could you have known this guy?”

You set your jaw stubbornly and simply gaze back at him. 

“Fine,” Zeik says, clearing his throat. “You going into work today?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think so. Can you tell Floyd---”

“That you had an emergency come up? Yeah,” Zeik says, giving you a nod.

“I’m late for work,” Michelle says, rising from the table. She takes her plate, scrapes it, and puts it in the dishwasher. When she comes back over she throws her arms around your neck and squeezes.

“I hope your friend feels better. I can’t wait to meet him.”

It wasn’t anything you expected, and a swell of gratitude fills your chest. “Thank you.”

She gives you a kiss on the cheek and then says good day to everyone else.

“Let us know if you need anything,” Raymond says as he leaves the table. “You know we got you.”

“Thanks, Ray,” you say.

“I totally made extra food, so please take it out to him,” Kyle says as he rises from the table to clean his dish.

“I really appreciate it.”

Soon it’s just you and Zeik again. You wait him out as he sits back to stare at you.

“It gets really chilly out there at night,” he finally says. “Does he need a coat or jacket?”

You nod. “Yeah, actually. I think he might.”

Zeik gives you an understanding smile. “I got something.”

Just before leaving for work, Zeik gives you his gently used black North Face jacket. It looks like it will fit Bucky just right. You thank him for his generosity and promise this will all be sorted out shortly.

“Just be safe. And call me if you need anything. _Anything,_ Steve. If he’s your friend, then he’s our friend too.”

Touched and overwhelmed by this show of acceptance in the absence of knowing anything about Bucky, you swallow down a lump that’s formed in your throat.

“Thank you, Zeik.”

He nods and then he’s gone.

You put Zeik’s jacket in the wagon, and then go back to the kitchen to pack some frittatas in Tupperware. You grab a few bottled waters, two apples, a few sardine cans, and load one of the extra thermoses with orange juice. It takes you ten minutes to find a mini-cooler but when you do, you pack it with ice and then stuff it with all the food. 

The thermos doesn’t fit in the cooler, so you put some ice cubes in there to keep the orange juice cold. Then you remember the leftover cupcakes from the other night and grab the tin they’re in. You’ll make it up to the others by baking a new batch. 

After you’re done you realize how nervous you are. Yes, you want to take care of Bucky, give him what he needs, but this is your way of stalling too. After everything you’ve read in his file, you have no idea how to begin to start a conversation with him. 

But then again, you and Bucky spoke yesterday. He even told a few jokes. Torture or not, he’s still _Bucky,_ your best friend. You promised nothing in that file was going to change that.

Through the kitchen window, you can see the sun nearly clearing the trees. Its yellow orange glow makes a pretty picture over the sprawling garden. Bucky’s out there and no matter what he needs or wants, it is a good day to start over.

*

As you pull the wagon up the path, it becomes painfully clear it is going to be a long walk. The wagon is clumsy and weighed down with all of the things you’ve packed. You have to stop a few times to set it and readjust things.

“What the hell?” Bucky says when he sees you walking up.

He’s standing at the end of the path, frowning down at the wagon behind you.

“What is all this?” he asks, walking past you to inspect the contents. “Did you bring the whole house with you?”

You rub the back of your neck. “Uh, I just bought a few things you might need?”

Bucky looks at you in bewilderment as he holds up a red neck pillow with hearts on it that you put in there last minute. 

“It gives extra support for your neck,” you say lamely.

“But you packed a pillow too,” Bucky says in exasperation. 

You gnaw at your bottom lip. OK, you may have gone a bit overboard.

“Jesus, how much food did you bring?” Bucky asks, digging through the cooler,and then one of the bags. He picks up the small tin and opens it. 

“Cupcakes?”

You shift on your feet. “You used to love chocolate….”

Bucky brings one of the cupcakes up to his nose and smells it and then puts the tin top back on. Maybe he doesn’t like cupcakes anymore? Who could blame him after what he’s been through. Maybe he has a completely different palette now. 

“Steve….”

“Huh?”

Bucky holds up the hard back book of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone Zeik gave you last year and a lime green glow-in-the-dark fidget spinner. 

You give a little shrug. “I remember how restless you used to get whenever we were camped out on a mission. Thought you’d find those entertaining.”

Bucky shakes his head, but he doesn’t look disapproving, and that’s something. 

“And what’s this for?” he says, holding up the bottle of WD40 you tucked in the wagon at the last minute.

“It’s ah, for your...your arm. I didn’t know if you have some kind of maintenance regimen, but just in case it gets stiff, that stuff is really good for lubricating… things.”

As soon as it is out of your mouth, you realize how bad that sounds. 

“Well now, we certainly can’t have me going stiff without lubricant,” Bucky says with a smirk. It’s an old and familiar look you recognize from years of dirty innuendos. Your standard response used to be ‘Bucky cut it out’, but right now all you can do is stand there like a dope and smile. 

There’s a soft meow and you both turn your heads and look back at the wagon. White fur and two curious cat eyes are peeking over a blanket you packed.

“You sneaky little--”

She meows at you again and jumps right out of the wagon.

Bucky crouches down and puts his hand out and Blanca slowly walks up to him and sniffs. 

“Aren’t you pretty?” he murmurs.

“Don’t tell her that,” you warn. “She’s already incredibly spoiled.”

Bucky smiles down at her. “What’s her name?”

“Blanca.”

As he runs his flesh hand over her fur, you’re struck with how gentle and tentative he’s being. 

“Do you remember Mr. Castle?” you ask. “That alley cat we found---”

“By Salle’s?” he finishes. “Yeah, I remember. I remember how you said _we_ should adopt him and you said--

“That it wouldn’t be _our_ cat, because I was probably allergic.”

“Well I was right,” Bucky says. “Because of your bleeding heart, I’m the one who ended up taking care of him. He used to eat all of my beer money.”

You roll your eyes. “You loved Mr. Castle. I didn’t exactly have to twist your arm to take him in.”

Bucky tries to bite back a smile as he continues to stroke Blanca, but you see it. 

“You hungry, girl? Want a cupcake?” he asks.

“Hey!” you say, slightly offended. “I bought those for you.”

“And I told you I’m having trouble eating. What do you want me to do, stare at it.”

Suddenly you feel guilty. Just the sight of all the food you brought out must be frustrating for him.

“Oh stop with the sad face, it’s not your fault,” Bucky says. “Actually, I had a whole protein bar last night. Fucked up my stomach though.”

“I’m glad you’re holding food down,” you say. 

“Well sorta,” he says with a grimace. “Don’t go too far to the left, it’s kinda gross back there.”

You wrinkle your nose playfully.

“So….” Bucky says, his hand stilling on the cat as he looks back at you.

“So…” you repeat, your pulse kicking up a notch. 

“You read the file?” he asks, watching you closely, like he’s searching for something. You take a breath and step closer.

“I know you said you don't want my apologies, but I’m so sorry, Bucky. I’m sorry I didn’t come back for you. I’m sorry that I left you alone to go through that. I’m...I'm sorry.”

As it turns out, you’re not all cried out; new tears prick the corners of your eyes. This is not the place or the time. Bucky needs you to keep your shit together. He needs you to be strong, supportive, not a quivering mess.

You push the heel of your palm into your eyes to force the tears back.

“You OK?” Bucky asks.

You huff out an incredulous short laugh. “After everything you’ve been through, you’re asking _me_ if I’m OK?” 

“Well you look upset,” Bucky says matter of factly. 

You shake your head. “Bucky….”

“Is that why you brought all this stuff out here? You feeling sorry for me?”

“No! No…” you rush to say. “I just want to make sure you have what you need. You’re sleeping out in the woods, Bucky.”

He gives you a wry smile. “Like you said, we used to do it all the time.”

You look around. He gathered even more firewood and stacked it against the hut. How long does he plan to stay out here?

“What’s your plan?” you ask.

He looks up at you, “Squat here and try to work on piecing my memories together. Being near you, seeing your face, helps. After you left last night, I remembered things I hadn’t thought about in years.”

You grin and take a seat right there in the dirt in front of the hut. “Like what?”

Bucky looks at you sitting in the dirt and walks slowly back to you before taking a seat beside you.

“Like the time you picked a fight with the Hurley brothers and got us both detention.”

“I did not pick that fight!” you argue. “And you didn’t have to butt in.”

Bucky scoffs. “You’d be dead right now if I hadn’t.”

“I had it under control,” you say defensively. “By the time you showed up---”

“Yeah, yeah, you had ‘em on the ropes,” he sighs, but there’s a little smile at the corner of his mouth.

He asks you if you remember your mother scolding the both of you for wrestling in the mud right after it rained. You tell him you’ll never forget that or the way she made the both of you scrub away all the mud you tracked into the apartment. It goes on like that for nearly an hour. Bucky offers a memory you hadn’t thought about in years and you confirm by adding a few details. The weight on your shoulders grows lighter with each new story. Bucky becomes more animated as you talk, imitating different people to bring the memory to life. It reminds you of all the times you were laid up sick in bed, and the way he used to act out scenes from local gossip to keep you entertained. 

After the eighth or ninth memory, you find yourself staring at him like you used to. Familiar longing snaking its way into your thoughts. You missed him so much. But more than that, the desire to touch him is still there. He’s sitting so close and he’s still so beautiful. 

You’re staring again. Only now Bucky notices. His face does something funny like he might know what you’re thinking and he’s surprised about it. You force your gaze away. Bucky clears his throat and then stands up to wipe the back of his pants. “I need to get cleaned up. Got any soap in that wagon?”

“Um, yeah,” you say, getting up to search the wagon for the Dove bar you packed. “Brought a washcloth and towel too.” You bring out all of it and present it to Bucky. “And there’s some bottled water here too.”

He doesn’t take the water. Instead he turns and starts walking back, past the hut. 

You wonder if he’s seeking privacy, so you stand by awkwardly, not sure what to do.

“Well come on!” Bucky calls.

“Oh, OK,” you say, jogging to catch up.

You follow him deeper into the forest. There’s no clear path and the brush is growing thick. You’re a little concerned. Just when you’re about to ask where he’s going, the trees thin out and the path opens up. Then you’re standing in a wide open space of sand and pebbles with a long narrow stream in front of you. It stretches as far as the eye can see and the water is so clear you can see little tadpoles along the pebbled bottom.

“Oh.”

“Pretty neat, huh?” Bucky says.

“I had no idea this was back here,” you say.

Bucky nods. “That’s good. That means it’s harder to find.”

He lays the wash cloth, soap and towel down on a large rock near the stream and then proceeds to pull off his red Henley. He moves quickly to strip down his jeans next. He’s only wearing a pair of tight white briefs when he picks up the soap and washcloth.

You know you should look away, but you don’t want to. The scarring around Bucky’s left shoulder is glaring. It stretches out in angry red dark lines like the metal arm is infecting the skin around it. It makes you wonder when and if he’s been seen by a real doctor. You want to ask, but it doesn’t feel like something to bring up now, maybe in a few days.

Your eyes drift from the shoulder to the wide expanse of flesh along his muscled back. It has been a lifetime since you’ve seen him like this. You remember countless summer evenings trying not to look affected when he’d walk around shirtless, sweat slicking his sun-kissed skin.

His skin is creamy instead of sun-kissed now. Also unblemished. But that shouldn’t be a surprise. The file you read said Hydra’s version of the serum pretty much works the way yours does and they preferred mental torture over beating him. 

Suddenly Bucky turns around, and locks eyes with you. You freeze.

He raises his chin and sticks out his chest like he’s inviting you to take a good look at him.

“Worse than you thought, right?” he says, with a wry smile. “Now you see what I am.”

“All I see is my best friend” you say.

Bucky gives you a deadpan stare. “Don’t patronize me. I have a weapon fused to my body. I’m literally a killing machine.”

“No, you’re not,” you argue. “You’re Bucky Barnes, a former prisoner of war, who was made to do things so outside his moral code they had to mess with your head, over and over. What you did, that wasn’t you.”

His jaw moves like he wants to retort, but instead he bends down to dip the washcloth into the stream. 

You really should stop staring like a creep. Just stop looking at him, alright? Stop.

“You know,” he says, wringing out the washcloth over the soap on his chest. You realize too late, your mouth is open. “You keep calling me Bucky, but I don’t completely feel like him. First of all, that guy would have never let his hair get this long.”

“Well people change,” you say. “If you hadn’t noticed?” You motion to your right ear where you still have a fresh row of piercings.

Bucky smirks. “Oh yeah, I definitely noticed.”

You really want to ask him what he thinks of it, but you’re not sure if you’re ready for him to critique or tease you. Not when his opinion of you and your new life matter so much to you.

“It’s a good look on you,” he says as if reading your mind. Damn it, you’re so easy for him. Try to control the goofy smile taking over your mouth.

“I uh, really like your hair long. Suits your face. I mean, the other way suited your face too,” you stammer. 

_What the fuck?_ Talking to Bucky was never this awkward. What is wrong with you?

“Sounds like you just like my face,” Bucky says with a smile in his voice.

Your eyes go wide and when Bucky turns to look at you, his smirk falls. 

“I’m sorry, that was...sorry,” he apologizes. “I was just kidding around. Guess I’m a little rusty at it.”

“No, it’s fine. That was funny.” _And true._

“So how long do your piercings usually last?” he asks, gratefully changing the subject. 

“Sometimes a full week. And I get tattoos too, sometimes,” you say a little shyly. “Those never last more than a day and a half though. But I still get them as often as possible. Actually, I’m a licensed tattoo artist now.”

“I know,” Bucky says.

You look back at him in surprise.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I found you, remember?”

“How long have you been here?” you ask incredulously.

“Long enough to know you work at Floyd’s Tattoo and Piercing, and that although you just got your license, you come highly recommended. Also you live in a hippie hostel that helps gay kids.”

An old fear you thought you’d gotten over seizes you and you go still. You’re surprised Bucky knew all of that, and you wonder what he thinks about it all. Especially the last part. 

You and Bucky never ever spoke about the neighborhood you grew up in, or the people you sometimes saw illegally kissing in alleys. For you, it was safer that way. If you didn’t talk about it, you could pretend it wasn’t something you wanted for you and Bucky. But you always assumed Bucky didn’t talk about it because he didn’t approve.

“Actually, um, we use the term queer or LGBTQIA. Not everyone in the house is gay, some of us are bisexual, asexual, trans, pan, and undecided.”

Bucky just stares at you for a long moment and you feel your insides shaking. You’ve spent a lifetime of hiding this huge piece of yourself. If he rejects you for this, it’ll break your heart, but he has to see you for who you are now. 

“Which one are you?” he asks slowly, still staring.

“Um, I think I’m bisexual. Possibly demi bisexual. At least that’s what I’ve settled on,” you say.

When he nods and says, “OK" you’re not sure what to make of it.

You watch as he goes back to rinsing soap off of his arms. Both of them. 

“The metal doesn’t get rusted by water?” you ask.

“No. It’s pretty much indestructible, except if like a powerful laser or missile struck it.”

“Does it hurt?”

He looks down at his shoulder. “Sometimes.”

It is not right that he still has to endure pain, after all he’s been through.

“Steve, stop looking at me like that. Nobody’s torturing me, and I don’t have to kill anyone…. I’d say I’m doing pretty good, if you don’t count the fact that I’m still having trouble eating or taking a dump. But you can’t have everything, right?”

You try to smile at his attempt at humor but you can feel your guilt creeping back.

“I know you said you got rid of all of them in DC, but if there’s even just one person left who was involved in what they did to you, I’m going to hunt them down and kill them.”

Bucky sighs as he rubs the wash cloth behind his ears. “You know what sucks? I know that warning you about taking on an extremely dangerous terrorist organization by yourself won’t work. In fact, based on past examples, it’ll probably only make you want to do it more.”

You look up to the sky in frustration. You could do it, you know you could. And it would be justified, Hydra deserves to pay for what they did. 

“I’m tired, Steve,” Bucky says. You look at him and take in the new lines on his face, the weariness in his eyes. “So tired. Killing all of those assholes in DC wasn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be. I just want to stop killing. And I don’t want you doing it either, especially not for me. I think both of us could use a break from all of this shit.”

You hang your head, and think of Peggy.

_Your only duty now is to reclaim the life you sacrificed. I know you want to help others. But there are other ways to serve._

You nod. “Alright. If you want a break, we’ll take a break. But if you change your mind and decide you want to root out every single member of Hydra, I’ll be right beside you for that too. I’m never going to abandon you again, Buck.”

Bucky gives you a long look and then reaches down into the water to cup water and then brings it over his head, running his hands through his hair. You're surprised it doesn’t catch on the metal.

“You were always a stubborn bastard,” he says.

“That’s right,” you agree. 

His lips turn up and you see teeth. It warms you more than the sun beating down on both of you now.

“You know, I don’t think half of that stuff you brought out here is gonna fit inside of the hut,” he says.

“I may have overdone it a little bit,” you admit.

“You think?” Bucky asks with heavy sarcasm.

You put one hand on your hip. “You know, if you stayed in the house with me, this wouldn’t be an issue.”

Bucky wrings his hair in the back, trying to get it to stay in place. 

“I bought you some hair tie things,” you say, “They’re in the bag with the clothes."

Bucky snickers. “Did you bring the kitchen sink too?”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll bring it out if you ask.”

“If you bring out anything else, I’m gonna put it in the garden. Not in a neat little pile either.”

You grin. “If it’ll get you to come closer to the house, it’ll be worth it.”

He gives you a crabby glare. “Why do you want me to come to the house so bad?”

“Because it has running water, you could take a shower, use a toilet, sleep in a nice bed, and have a roof over your head when it rains. Besides, I think the family will love you.”

His eyes widen a little at the word family. 

“It's weird, but that’s what they are to me,” you explain. “I know this place is nothing like Brooklyn, but it almost feels like home.”

“Almost?” Bucky asks.

“Almost,” you repeat, looking at him meaningfully. You want to tell him so bad that he’s been the missing piece all along. But it feels like too much. 

He’s being very quiet as he picks up the towel to dry off. Like maybe he can’t accept that you’re calling these people family or this place home. Maybe he just thinks he’ll be a nuisance, that you don’t need him anymore. You can’t have him thinking any of those things.

“Buck, I want you to stay,” you say, drawing closer. “I know you’re still sorting things out, but this is the perfect place to be while you do that. There’s plenty of space and food. If you’re worried about being a burden, don’t. And if you want to chip in and work, there’s plenty to do. I love these people, and I think you will too.”

“And what if I don’t want to live with you?” he asks.

It socks the air out of you like getting hit by a flyball. You're struggling to breathe and your heart feels like it’s caving in on itself. You try to control your face to hide your disappointment, but are pretty sure it’s not working. 

“Then I’ll respect that,” you manage to say. “I have no right to ask you to stay, I know that. You don’t owe me anything.”

Bucky stares at you for a moment and you prepare yourself for him to say goodbye, so sure that you’ve lost him. 

But then he smirks. 

You narrow your eyes.

“God, you’re easy….” he says.

“That wasn’t funny,” you say, glaring to hide the sheer glee you feel.

Bucky smiles. “You should have seen your face.”

“Asshole.”

Bucky huffs. “Ah come on, Stevie. I came all the way out here to fucking Nebraska to find you. I’m not gonna just up and leave.”

You exhale, relief washing over you. “Does that mean you’ll come back to the house with me?”

“Well, I didn’t say that….”

*

The two of you spend the entire day by the stream. 

Bucky listens while you describe everyone in the house. You don’t tell their stories, because those are theirs to tell, but you describe their personalities and how each of them has helped you in their own special way. 

He says that it sounds like you got lucky, and landed in the right place. You correct him and say that it’s not just you who struck gold. Bucky still seems unsure, like he’s not sure if he should be sticking around. When you ask him about his reservations, he says he doesn’t want to disrupt the life you’ve built. 

That makes you laugh out loud. 

When he asks what’s so funny, you explain how this life you’ve built was directly because of him. That you went searching for a purpose that would honor the way he lived, how he treated people. 

Bucky blushes and shoves you with his flesh hand and tells you to stop being mushy.

You both sit by the stream then, in perfect silence, staring at the beautiful landscape. There’s something hanging in the air between, but you don’t know what it is. You hate that the old fantasy that you two could be something more is nudging you again.

“So….how the hell did you evade SHIELD for so long?” Bucky asks. “I know for a fact, you’re a terrible liar.”

You blush as you describe how you got caught by Natasha when you broke down and called Amanda to check in. Bucky calls that a rookie move, says you’re really lucky it was just Natasha that found you. You tell him about Natasha coming out to try and bring you back in. 

Bucky gets quiet again, and you wait him out, certain he has something on his mind. Then he tells you he remembers Natasha, but he’s not sure from where. Thinks he may have trained her or something, probably not in America. Says while she’s not Hydra, she definitely has a past she wants to forget. 

You’re not really surprised, more curious, and maybe a little jealous. What if Bucky did more than train her? You try to casually mention that Natasha’s exactly his type - a pretty redhead with a smart mouth, kinda like a grown up version of Dot.

Bucky scoffs and says that feels like another lifetime ago. Then he asks about Peggy and if you’ve seen her.

You tell him you did, and how she started you on the path to get here. Then you tell him about the nursing home and how hard it was to see her like that. Bucky looks pensive and tells you the only memories he has of Peggy have you in them. He asks you if you regret putting down the plane, and the life you could have spent with her.

As you look out across the stream, you shake your head, and tell him that you used to, but not anymore. What you don’t say is that it's easier not to regret giving up a life with Peggy now that he’s back. 

Maybe one day you’ll tell him. 

Probably not.

He asks if you are dating anyone now or have your eye on someone. He isn’t looking at you when he asks the question.

You think of Zeik, and say, “Not anymore.”

“Why not?” he asks, his voice thick with some emotion you can’t identify.

Now would be the time to tell him. To tell him that he’s the reason why you haven’t dated in the two years you've been awake. That you’ve been in love with him since you were twelve.

But considering he just escaped captivity means it’s a terrible time to confess an eighty year old secret like you’re in love with your best friend. 

“I dunno. Just wasn’t meant to be, you know?” 

He looks at you then, and keeps looking. His stare grows heavier. It looks like… like Bucky is about to say something. Something you’ve been wanting to hear him say since you were a kid, but that can’t be right. 

“Steve….”

A branch cracks behind you, breaking the spell, and you both snap your heads to look in that direction.

More branches crack and then you hear the crunch of footsteps. Bucky’s on his feet, and you’re in your fighting stance.

“Steve?” you hear Michelle call.

You exhale. “Yeah, back here.”

One by one, Michelle, Raymond, Kyle, and Zeik all come into view. Until this exact moment you hadn’t noticed the sun had moved. It’s in the opposite position it was when you and Bucky came out here.

Shit. 

When you glance back at Bucky, he’s holding himself stiff. 

“We were worried. You weren’t answering your phone,” Raymond says. He’s holding his bat.

Zeik and Kyle both look dumbfounded, their eyes are glued to Bucky.

“Sorry, I must have left it on the wagon,” you say. “Um, everyone, this is….”.

“Bucky…” Bucky says.

You raise your eyebrows, not expecting that.

Michelle and Raymond nod and say ‘hello’. Kyle opens his mouth but nothing’s coming out, and Zeik is frowning.

“Bucky, this is everyone.” You point each one out as you identify them.

“Bucky...as in Bucky Barnes?” Kyle says.

“Yes, that’s… his name,” you say, glancing at Bucky to gauge his reaction. He’s standing perfectly still. It’s almost eerie how motionless he is. “And just like me, no one needs to know he’s here.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Barnes, " Kyle says. "I’m a huge fan.”

Bucky eyes do a strange thing like he’s genuinely surprised and then weirded out by this confession.

“Uh, thank you...and hello…” he finally says. 

Kyle starts smiling hard.

“Steve, when you said an old friend, I would never have guessed it’d be your _best_ friend,” Zeik says. 

There’s something off in his voice, but he’s plasters on a smile. You can tell it’s not natural though.

“We were just catching up. Must've lost track of the time,” you explain. 

“We’re just glad you’re alive,” Michelle says, and then looks at Bucky.

“Yeah man, keep your phone on you,” Raymond chastises. “How many times do we have to tell you and Zeik about that.”

“Sorry,” you say, not so convincingly.

“You’re welcome to have dinner with us,” Michelle says. “Me and Zeik are cooking tonight.”

Bucky looks at her and then at Zeik.

“Listen guys, thanks for checking up on me,” you say. “I’m fine. Give me a few minutes, I’ll be back up soon.”

“Sure,” Michelle says, pulling on Raymond and Kyle. “We’ll make an extra plate of food for Bucky.” She flashes him a grin and then they’re walking away. 

Zeik gives a nod as he looks between you and Bucky. His lips are in a thin line you’ve never seen before. “See you in a few,” he says. Then he turns his back and catches up with the others.

“Well, that’s the family,” you say, trying to keep your voice cheery even as you keep thinking _Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave._ “Wanna come up for dinner?” you ask as nonchalantly as possible. You may be missing the mark a little.

Bucky looks off to the forest, in the direction where they all went. “You know, when I said Hydra wasn’t tailing me...I meant that I was 99.99% sure they don’t know I’m here. I can’t give an absolute guarantee they won’t show up. I don’t want to put your family in danger.”

You scoff. “Trust me, Buck. I worried about the same thing when trying to decide whether to stay here or not. The fact of the matter is, we’re both here now, and leaving won’t help them. They’re more at risk if you’ve been here and just leave,than if you stay. At least we can protect them.”

He still appears skeptical. “I dunno. They seem nice, but I think they were just being polite out of respect for you. I don’t want to intrude.”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you trying to find a way to avoid coming up to the house?”

He stares down at the sand. “I haven’t been around people in a long time, Steve.”

“We hung out all day.”

“You’re different,” Bucky says. “If I go up there, it’s gonna be weird and awkward. I didn’t have to be social to be an assassin.”

You stuff your hands in your pockets, remembering the first night at the house. “You know how socially awkward I am. Always been. These people? They didn’t care. But... if you’re uncomfortable, you don’t have to go. The invitation is always there when you’re ready.”

“I can’t really eat much, remember?” Bucky says, his eyes searching yours. “I wouldn’t want to offend anyone if I can’t finish my food.”

“No one is gonna be offended,” you say. “I know you’re still adjusting to eating, but you still have to eat _something,_ and real food beats a protein bar, which by the way is harder on your digestive system than whole foods. You need real nutrients.”

Bucky huffs and rolls his eyes. “Oh god, now you sound like my mom.”

You shrug. “She’d want me to encourage you to at least try to eat your veggies.”

He snorts. “Fine. But I still hate brussel sprouts.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Don’t worry, no one in the house is a big fan of those.”


	12. Home Sweet Home

The sun dips low as you and Bucky leave the stream to walk back up to the hut. 

He stops to stare at the wagon you packed. “Where are the hair tie things?” 

You dig through the bag of toiletries you brought. “Here.” You pull out a ziplock bag full of Michelle’s and Zeik’s multi-colored hair ties.

Bucky chooses a dark red one that matches his shirt. 

“You know as soon as it rains, all of this stuff is gonna get soaking wet,” he says, motioning towards the wagon.

“I guess that means you should probably help me bring it back.” You are only half-joking but Bucky levels you a surly glare. 

That was your last try. You won’t press anymore. Even though you’re disappointed, you’re happy he has agreed to come to dinner. 

You start on the path back, walking slowly, hoping Bucky will fall in beside you. But the footsteps behind you grow fainter. Your heart sinks, but you have to respect Bucky’s decision. So you keep walking. 

A squeaky creak makes you whirl back around. Bucky is pulling the wagon towards the house. He’s wearing Zeik’s jacket and the bookbag. 

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Helping you bring this stuff back,” Bucky says in the same exxagerated slow manner he always uses when he thinks you’re being stupid.

“But you need it,” you say. 

“Not if I’m staying with you,” he says, his eyes suddenly cloudy with doubt.

You can feel your face splitting into a grin. “Right.”

The house is bustling with energy. There is fast uptempo music playing on the soundbar in the living room and spilling into the kitchen. Michelle and Zeik dance around each other with spices and cooking utensils. Raymond and Kyle sit at the kitchen table and hold a conversation about some new Tom Cruise movie without ever looking up. Raymond is focused on some game on his phone while Kyle hunches over, texting with both hands. 

Bucky takes in the scene. When he looks back at you, you see apprehension. You sympathize. Two years ago, walking into a scene like this would have been overwhelming and sent you back out of the room. You really hope Bucky doesn’t run, but you can’t think of anything to make him stay.

“Hey, glad you guys made it,” Michelle says suddenly, looking over her shoulder. She’s checking the oven. Looks like some kind of pot roast. “Bucky, feel free to take your jacket off and get comfortable.”

Bucky seems to draw in on himself and shakes his head. “I’m fine with it on.”

“Alright, cool,” Michelle says without missing a beat. “Can you and Steve make the salad?” 

You raise a questioning eyebrow and Bucky nods.

“Sure,” you say.

Zeik eyes Bucky and then glances at you before looking away. You wonder what is going through his head. 

You run the faucet to wash your hands and Bucky saddles up beside you. When you pick up the dishwashing liquid, he cups his hands out. You bite back a smile as you squirt some onto his hands and then your own. Bucky watches you wash your hands and waits for you to finish before doing the same. 

“What do you think, Buck? Lettuce and tomatoes?”

He gives a simple nod, still looking tense.

You want to reassure him but somehow you think that may make it worse. So you pick up a couple of bunches of lettuce as Bucky stares on. You glance behind him. He follows your eyes and moves towards the recently plucked vine of tomatoes. 

“Do you mind cutting those?” you ask.

“OK,” he murmurs.

You start pulling the lettuce away from the stem, because you really hate the stems, when you hear the rapid staccato of a knife hitting a chopping board.

All conversation and movement in the kitchen comes to a standstill as everyone turns to stare at Bucky’s work. 

He’s chopped four tomatoes in perfect wedges, they’re laid out symmetrically like something off of a TV cooking show.

“Damn!” Raymond exclaims.

“That is expert level chopping,” Kyle says, looking impressed.

“Are you like a chef or something?” Michelle asks.

“Um, no,” Bucky says. “Just good with...knives.”

When he glances at you, his cheeks are pinkening. 

You’re both proud of and disturbed by Bucky’s knife work, mostly because you know how he acquired it. 

Gathering the lettuce into the large wooden bowl, you hold it out to Bucky. “OK, it’s ready for your tomatoes.”

“Got any cucumbers?” Bucky asks.

“Oh here,” Michelle goes to the fridge and pulls out two cucumbers. 

This time everyone stops before Bucky even starts. You feel a spike of nervousness on his behalf, hoping this level of attention doesn’t make him bolt.

Quite the contrary. Bucky shakes his hair back from his face and takes inventory of the room to make sure everyone is looking at him. Then he arranges the cucumbers parallel to each other and proceeds to chop them perfectly in a few seconds.

“Dude, I’m enrolled in a culinary program and no one in my class can do that, especially not that fast,” Kyle says with clear admiration in his voice.

Zeik gives Bucky a little smile. “We might have to make you the designated chopper now. We all hate chopping onions.”

Something in your chest loosens. You were afraid there would be tension between Zeik and Bucky. Maybe some resentment. But Zeik seems to be at least trying to make Bucky feel welcome. 

There’s still about ten minutes to wait until the meat is ready. You and Bucky set the table, and you scold Raymond and Kyle about using phones at mealtime. They roll their eyes but put their phones away, and then Zeik announces that dinner is ready.

Bucky cautiously takes off the bookbag and sets it down beside him. You glance at it, and wonder what’s so important that he has to keep it so close. No one else seems to care though. 

Everyone grabs a plate and loads up on the pot roast, baked carrots with roasted potatoes, and the salad you and Bucky made. Everyone except for Bucky. 

“You don’t eat meat, do you?” Michelle asks, looking irritated with herself. “I usually make a vegetarian option. I know eating salad gets old fast. I can whip something up.”

Bucky looks guilty as he stares at his empty plate. “Actually, I’m having trouble digesting most things right now. Do you, um, have anything soft like… apple sauce.”

“Yes!” Raymond jumps up. “I _love_ applesauce. You can have as much as you want, ‘cause no one eats it but me. Do you like apple butter too?”

Bucky scrunches up his nose. “Don’t think I’ve ever tried it.”

Raymond puts his hand over heart. “Oh! If you like applesauce, you’re gonna wanna try this. It’s really good on plain white bread. Will that upset your stomach?”

“I don't think so,” Bucky says with a tiny shrug.

“Cool, let me fix it up for you,” Raymond says with all the excitement of someone who found a potential person to share this thing he loves. 

You bite back a smile and stuff your mouth with carrots.

As it turns out Bucky loves both cinnamon and strawberry applesauce. With a side of white bread slathered in apple butter, the meal is a success. Not only does Bucky finish all of it, but he gets up to make himself another full apple butter sandwich. 

“My man!” Raymond says, clapping his hands. “Finally, someone with some taste in this house.”

“Hey!” everyone protests. Bucky is shameless in his smirking.

The conversation changes to everyone’s day. They all give an update on how things are at work. Zeik tells you two customers came in asking for you.

“That’s great,” you say. “Maybe I can book them for next week.”

“You’re not going in tomorrow?” Zeik asks, putting down his fork.

“Uh,” you pause to glance at Bucky. “I was thinking about hanging around here for the rest of the week, catching up with Bucky. You think Floyd will be mad?”

Zeik looks down at his plate, frowning. “No, I don’t think so. You’ve been working there for over two years and haven’t missed a day. I’m sure he won’t mind. It’s just… when you’re not there, the place isn’t the same.”

It’s hard not to read into that statement, especially when Zeik looks up and gives you a heavy look. You drop your eyes to your dinner, but you can feel Bucky’s eyes on you. 

“Actually, I have some things I need to take care of,” Bucky says suddenly. “So you should go in. I’ll be fine.”

That’s not what you wanted. Spending time with Bucky today was so much fun. You were looking forward to spending more time with him. But you have to respect his wishes and that means giving him space.

“OK, Buck,” you concede. “Guess I’ll be back tomorrow then,” you say to Zeik.

Zeik’s eyes slide to Bucky and then back to you. He gives a stiff nod and then stuffs a forkful of pot roast into his mouth.

There’s an awkward silence until thankfully, Raymond starts talking about a customer that came in complaining of a heavy clunking whenever he stopped or started driving. As it turned out, the customer had a bowling ball in his trunk. Everyone laughs, but you notice Zeik doesn’t talk as much after that.

After dinner, Kyle suggests a movie. He informs Bucky that they’ve been going through your list of things to catch up on, and that the family is in the middle of a John Hughes’ marathon. Bucky looks at you in question and you give him a thumbs up. 

“So far so good. I liked the first two,” you say. 

“OK,” Bucky says with a ‘what the hell did I step into’ face. 

Everyone at the table is very excited to have another person that hasn’t seen The Breakfast Club. 

“You guys are gonna love it. I promise!” Kyle says.

“Don’t make promises like that,” Michelle says. “Not everyone loves the Breakfast Club.”

“Yes they do!” Kyle argues. “Oh and John Hughes also made a movie called ‘Uncle Buck’. We should totally watch that too.”

Bucky looks skeptical. “Let’s stick with the first one, the one about breakfast.”

They all laugh and you and Bucky glance at each other in confusion.

“You’ll get why that was funny after the movie,” Michelle explains. 

As you all pile into the living room, you make sure to get ahead of Bucky and choose a seat first, so he doesn’t feel pressure to sit beside you. But as soon as you sit on the couch, Bucky plops down right beside you. 

Inside your head, you do a little cheer, so happy Bucky doesn’t want to keep his distance. 

Zeik usually sits right beside you, but tonight, it’s Kyle on your left. You glance around and notice that Zeik has chosen a seat on the other side of Raymond. 

You try to catch Zeik’s eye, but he seems intent on looking at the television. 

“Everything alright?” Bucky asks, looking at you, and then at Zeik.

“Yeah...everything's fine,” you say. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

Bucky brushes a stray hair out of his eye, and gives you a small smile.

The movie is pretty good. It’s way more intense than the first two John Hughes movies you saw. You see flashes of yourself at different points in your life in four out of five of the characters. 

“What did you think, Buck?”

“That was really...dramatic. Lotta teen angst. You loved it, didn’t you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, I did,” you say defiantly.

“Told ya!” Kyle says. 

Raymond stretches and yawns. “I gotta hit the sack.” 

Everyone agrees and one by one, they rise for bed. 

Finally, Zeik stands. “You’re welcome to stay here,” he says to Bucky. “As long as you like. We have two extra rooms, one on the second floor, near Steve, and one in the attic. The attic room doesn’t have a bathroom but it’s bigger.”

“He can stay in my room. I have plenty of room,” you say.

“Oh.” Zeik nods jerkily. “Yeah, sure. That’s fine. Of course.”

Shit. You can see how uncomfortable Zeik is and you don’t know what to do about it. Maybe this isn’t going to be as smooth as you thought. 

Bucky looks between you and Zeik. “Actually the attic sounds good.”

That’s not what you want either, but you don’t want Bucky to feel like you’re encroaching on his privacy. At least he’s staying in the house. 

“OK, I’ll set you up,” Zeik says. “Follow me.”

You want to follow, but you’re worried that would seem like hovering. So you stay behind and watch Zeik and Bucky take the stairs. Bucky pauses halfway up though to look back at you.

“Where’s your room?” he asks.

You nearly stumble to rush over to the staircase. “Right at the top of the stairs on the second floor. I’ll show you.”

It’s ridiculous how much you want to show Bucky your room. When you open your door, you make a grand gesture of extending your arm. 

Bucky walks around, taking it in, pausing in front of your nightstand where all your photographs sit. 

He turns to look at you over his shoulder, pointing to the framed photograph of you and him laughing and one with all of the Howlies.“Think you could get me a copy of these two?” 

“Yeah, I can get copies for you tomorrow,” you say happily.

*

It’s hard to sleep knowing Bucky is above you. You wonder if he’s wide awake too or finally getting a nice rest now that he has a decent bed. You hope it’s the latter. You also wonder what is going through Zeik’s head. If he’s jealous or feels like things will have to change between you two. In the few weeks leading up to Bucky’s appearance, you were seriously entertaining dating Zeik. You may have even flirted with him. 

Goddammit.

You don’t want to lose Zeik as a friend, but you definitely can’t see dating him now. Not when Bucky is right here. Not that you have any chance with Bucky. Bucky has never been in your reach romantically. And now that he’s a newly escaped prisoner of war, the thought of entertaining romantic notions seems distasteful. But dating someone, anyone else, right now feels wrong too.

Why is your love life always so fucking tragic? 

A soft scratching noise draws your attention to the door.

You hear Blanca’s meow through the wood. You sigh and get out of bed, opening the door to let her in.

“Hey,” Bucky whispers, holding Blanca in his flesh arm, close to his chest. “She beat me to the door. Were you asleep?”

“No!” you say, your mind full of static. Bucky’s here. He’s at your door. That could be good or bad. He looks terribly uncomfortable in his red Henley and dirty cargo pants.

“Do you need pajamas?” you ask.

His face goes through a series of emotions and then he nods.

“I have some extra. Come in.” You step back and open the door. 

When you turn on the light, Bucky squints against the brightness and Blanca gives another meow. He puts her down. She promptly hops onto your bed to sit and stare at the both of you.

You go to the dresser to retrieve a loose fitting t-shirt and some pajama bottoms.

“Here you go… do you need anything else?”

Bucky takes the clothing, and just stands in the middle of the floor, staring down at the carpet. 

“Um, no. Goodnight,” he says with uncertainty. 

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you say, still waiting just in case he has anything else to say.

But he turns and leaves. Blanca darts right out to follow him. You close your door, wondering what that was all about.

*

You and Bucky are the last to come down for breakfast. Everyone is very friendly and welcoming, asking how Bucky slept. Bucky is more verbal than he was the night before. He says that he slept fine, and that he had weird dreams about fighting the Breakfast Club. This starts a fascinating conversation about weird dreams involving movie characters. You discover that Minions randomly make an appearance in Zeik’s dreams. Michelle says she dreams about being Sarah Conner or Inigo Montoya while Raymond brags that all his movie dreams consist of making out with Meagan Good. Kyle has the freakiest dreams of them all. They’re all some mixture of Bring It On and Brokeback Mountain.

After breakfast is over, Raymond, Michelle, and Kyle leave for work, leaving you Bucky, and Zeik at the table.

There’s a strange lull of quiet heaviness between you three, and you’re not quite sure what to say. You want this to work, for Zeik and Bucky to be friends. But that’s not your call, and you feel largely responsible for making this situation the way it is.

“I’ll um, clean up,” Bucky says, breaking the silence. “You guys can get going. I’ll be fine.”

“How do you like your new room?” Zeik asks suddenly.

Bucky’s eyes widen slightly in surprise. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, the room is yours for as long as you want it.”

“Don’t you need to ask the others how they feel about that?” Bucky asks.

Zeik smirks. “Already did. We talked about it before you guys came up for dinner. Steve cares about you a lot. We like to see Steve happy.”

The way Zeik looks at you then fills you with so much gratitude. Maybe this won’t be as hard as you thought. 

Bucky’s frowning though. “Thank you, but if I stay, I want to pay, just like any other guest would.”

“It took almost a year before Zeik accepted full payment from me,” you say, smirking at Zeik’s amazing generosity. “I _just_ started paying my share of the mortgage.”

Zeik shrugs. “No regrets. It’s a family policy for new permanent residents. People need to get on their feet first before they can contribute.”

“I have money,” Bucky says stubbornly. “How much?”

Zeik waves him off. “We can talk about money later. I’ll leave you a key to the house before I go.”

You shake your head. “Let it go, Buck. He won’t take it…..are you sure you’ll be alright here by yourself?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’m not ten years old, Stevie.”

“Stevie?” Zeik grins. “Is that your nickname?”

“No,” you say firmly.

*

It takes you a little longer to get out of the house. You make a big show of going up to your room, to get ready. Before you leave for work, you leave an envelope of money right next to the photographs on your nightstand and leave your bedroom door wide open.

Bucky’s gone back up to his room in the attic. You walk slowly down the hall until you reach the stairs leading up to it.

“Buck, we’re heading out!” you shout up at him.

“Alright!” Bucky calls back down. 

“I left my phone number on the fridge, OK? Call me if you need anything.”

“Ooooo-K!” Bucky sings down like you’re being overbearing again.

And yeah, you’re worried. He just escaped from Hydra, and although he’s putting on a brave face and joking around, it can’t be easy for him. You remember how hard it was for you when you first arrived, and you didn’t have to deal with the aftermath of torture and being an assassin.

You really want to run up there and see what he’s doing. Is he just laying in the bed? Staring out that tiny attic window, brooding? Trying to remember everything that happened to him?

It’s not your business, even though you really, _really_ want to know. 

“Steve, please go to work,” Bucky says, like he can see through the floorboards.

Damn, he really does know you well.

“OK, have a good day,” you say.

“You too,” he says, and this time, you hear the smile in his voice.

Zeik is waiting for you in the van when you finally leave the house. As he pulls out, you stare at the side mirror where you can see the attic window. There’s no sign of Bucky. He has the whole house to himself all day, what will he do?

“You worried about him?” Zeik asks.

“Huh? Oh, no...I mean. He’s strong and smart. He’ll be fine.”

“Strong and smart don’t really have nothing to do with trauma, we both know that,” Zeik says.

You let your head fall back and sigh. “Yeah, but I don’t want to crowd him.”

“I get it,” Zeik says in the counselor like tone he sometimes uses with troubled kids. You’d probably be offended if you weren’t so in need of counsel right now. “It’s hard to give someone space to sort things out on their own, especially when you really care about them.”

“Thank you for letting him stay,” you say. “I know I’ve been acting secretive ...I appreciate how much you’re trusting me.”

Zeik appears contemplative all of a sudden. “Can I ask you something?”

You grasp the door grip and nod curtly. “Yeah.”

“Did he have anything to do with what happened at SHIELD?”

Should you tell him? Does Zeik have a right to know? Would it endanger Bucky to divulge anything related to what happened? You feel trapped between a rock and a hard place.

“The fact that you’re taking so long to answer kinda answers it,” Zeik says. “Wow. That’s….”

“Bucky’s loyal, kind, and generous,” you rush to say. “And he would never do something like that unless he had no other option.”

“Were they bad people? The ones he killed.” Zeik asks.

“The very worst kind of people,” you reply.

Zeik nods, like he’s not surprised. “Are the feds gonna come here looking for him?”

“I don’t think so,” you say slowly. “But if they do, we’ll make sure no one else gets caught up in it.”

Zeik looks over at you for a long moment and then his eyes return to the road. “Well he’s in the house now. And if you vouch for him, then we’ll stand by you both.”

You look at his hands on the wheel. His knuckles are relaxed. It’s a good sign, but you don’t want to take things for face value. You know what you saw last night. 

“Zeik, about last night--”

“I know what you’re about to say,” Zeik interrupts. “And you don’t have to. I’m a big boy. I’ll be alright. You let me down easy over a year ago. I should have been moved on by now.”

You shift in your seat. “Yeah but, lately, both of us have been kinda---”

“Flirty?” he offers. 

“Yeah,” you admit with a guilty sigh.

“I’m not gonna lie,” Zeik says. “I was starting to get my hopes up again. But you never made any promises, so…. no hard feelings.”

That all sounds really good, but you know Zeik is really good at putting people at ease, he has all the right words but that doesn’t mean it’s that easy.

“I could tell you were uncomfortable last night,” you say, watching for his reaction.

Zeik blows out a hard breath. “I might have been a little jealous. I mean, he just showed up out of nowhere. He was supposed to be…. you know…”

“Dead?” you offer.

Zeik swallows, and nods. “Yeah. I know how bad that sounds. I’m honestly happy he’s alive. I am. It just caught me off guard is all. Actually, it’s pretty amazing that both of you survived. Like what are the odds?”

“It really is incredible,” you admit. “I’m still trying to process it myself.”

“I’ll get over it, I promise,” Zeik says. “Me and Ray had a really good talk late last night, and you know what I realized?”

“What?”

“I haven’t been on a date since you came to Lincoln.” Zeik says, shaking his head. “You literally told me not to hold my breath for you. But that’s what I’ve been doing.”

“It’s hard to give up on someone when there’s a connection,” you say, because you really do understand. It’s the same reason why you still can’t date anyone. 

“True,” he agrees. “But the connection you have with Bucky? That’s the real deal. Everyone can see it. I want something like that.”

You smile to yourself as you think of how easily things fell into place yesterday.

“Seriously,” Zeik says. “I’ll be fine. You’re one of my best friends, Steve, and I love seeing you this happy. Even if it’s not with me.”

“Thank you,” you say, a little choked up with emotion. How did you get so damn lucky?

*

Floyd welcomes you back to work and Lexy promptly informs you now have a waiting list and need to sort out your calendar for the week. You’re slightly surprised to have so many messages, but it’s gratifying to know people like what you do.

You take one walk-in and two scheduled appointments before the shop closes up. Lexy gives you fresh piercings in the nose and right ear before she leaves for the day. While she’s doing it you ask Zeik if he can give you a fresh new coat of ink on the neck. 

“Same one?” he asks.

“Yes, but could you add a little color to it? Like red?”

“Is this for you, or for Bucky?”

Your face grows hot. 

Zeik just laughs while Floyd shoots you a puzzled look.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” he asks.

You and Zeik both exchange a glance as Floyd walks over. 

“I _know_ you ain’t talking about your best friend. The one who died in 1945.”

You wince. “Floyd, I think you better sit down.”

*

Floyd reacts well to news that your formerly deceased best friend is still alive and somehow found you. When he asks how in the world Bucky could have survived, you tell him that he must have the same serum you do. You don’t give him details but Floyd’s a smart guy. He puts together that Bucky showing up must be related to the SHIELD massacre. You neither confirm or deny it, but that’s all the confirmation he needs. 

“So you’re telling me we got two biologically enhanced supersoldiers connected to SHIELD staying here in Lincoln,” Floyd says. “Are you sure they’re not gonna come looking for either one of you?” 

“You think we need to leave.” It’s not even a question.

“No,” Floyd says, surprising you. “But I do think you need to start working on your cover. Sooner or later people are going to put two and two together.”

“I have no knowledge of SHIELD or super soldiers,” you say with a straight face. “My name Micheal O'Connor and I’m a tax paying tattoo artist.” 

“Yeah, you I’m not worried about,” Floyd says. “But if your friend has a metal prosthetic, that’s gonna be a little harder to hide. What’s _his_ alias? Does he have a job? Do you guys plan to both stay at the hostel?”

You gnaw at the inside of your lip as you consider Floyd’s questions. These are all of the things you have been thinking about, but haven’t figured out yet. 

Ziek pats your back. “We’ll work it out. And yes to the last question. They’re both staying with us… indefinitely.”

“That’s fine,” Floyd says. “Just wanna make sure you have a plan.”

“I have a few plans in mind,” you say. “But this is really Bucky’s call.”

Floyd nods. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Floyd,” you say. 

*

It’s a lot to process, and on the way home, Zeik throws out possible ways to keep Bucky’s identity hidden. You inform Zeik that only Bucky can choose how this will play out and that you will discuss it with him when you get back to the house.

“Alright, sounds good,” Zeik says. “But if he does end up staying and getting a new identity. What then?”

“What do you mean?” you ask, genuinely confused.

“Do you plan to ever tell him how you feel about him?”

You stare ahead as a mixture of frustration and shame storm through you. It’s not something you really want to think or talk about. It’s not _appropriate._ Bucky just got out of being in captivity. He was tortured for God’s sake. It feels gross to even entertain this conversation. That’s exactly what you tell Zeik too.

“So how long do you think it’ll take for him to get over it?” Zeik asks.

Your mouth drops as you look back at him. “Excuse me?”

Zeik turns off the radio, and slows down the van. “Steve ...you've been in love with this guy since you were a kid. And now you have a second chance to tell him. Most people don’t get that. That’s all I’m saying.”

“He can barely eat,” you grit out. “He flinched when I first tried to hug him, and he’s still trying to sort out his memories….there’s no way I’m gonna bring up my stupid crush. Not now. Not any time soon.”

“It’s way more than a crush, but alright,” Zeik sighs. “Let me just say this though -- from what I’ve observed, he wants to be treated like anyone else.”

You huff. “I will. I _am._ I just...need to be considerate of what he’s going through too. He needs time to recover. And I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Fine,” Zeik says, reaching over to turn on the radio.

A slow and melancholy song fills the truck. “Love bites, love bleeds, it’s bringing me to my knees,” the singer cries. 

“You and me both, pal,” you mutter under your breath.

*

When you and Zeik arrive home, you find Bucky in the kitchen rolling dough and cooking some sort of stew. He says he’s making Shepherd’s Pie. It smells amazing. 

He’s not wearing the jacket or the backpack. But they’re both close by, next to the kitchen table.

Raymond, Kyle, and Michelle are all in the living room. Apparently Bucky kicked them out of the kitchen and took over. They don’t seem the least bit bothered by it. In fact, they all look excited about having a new “chef” in the house. Michelle also reports that while everyone was at work, Bucky cleaned the entire place, top to bottom. 

You don’t know what to make of that. You hope Bucky doesn’t feel obligated or indebted for receiving room and board. Perhaps it’s a conversation you need to have with him. 

Soon dinner is served, and it’s just as delicious as it smells. Everyone is so enamored with Bucky’s cooking skills. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, he uses dry wit or sarcasm, which endears him even more to the family.

After dinner, the family watches the next John Hughes movie on your list, ‘Ferris Bueller's Day Off’. Bucky actually laughs a few times and says it’s way more fun than ‘The Breakfast Club’. You agree, but still like the latter better. Bucky says ‘of course you do’ which earns him a jab of your elbow. You realize too late what you’ve done, and apologize profusely. Bucky just jabs you back and tells you not to start something you can’t finish. It’s a nice surprise, despite the dull pain in your side.

As everyone scatters to go to bed, you ask Bucky to stay downstairs to talk. 

He looks concerned so you quickly explain that you don’t want to be overbearing but you have to know if he has a plan. That he has a metal arm that’s easy to identify, and cheekbones and a dimpled chin that can be easily matched.

Bucky just shakes his head with a smile, and throws his flesh arm over your shoulders. “Stevie, you read my file. I was a Russian assassin. I know how to hide in plain sight. I’m taking care of it. As for the arm, I don’t know if you know this, but they make these things called long-sleeve shirts and gloves. I don’t have to go around flashing my arm to everyone.”

“And your face?” you prod.

“I’m keeping the five o’clock shadow,” Bucky says. “And growing out my hair even longer, like past the shoulders.” 

He pulls his hair tie out and shakes his hair out like one of those hair models. Suddenly you find it hard to catch your breath. God he’s stunning. 

“Maybe I’ll even get highlights. What do you think?” he says, running his metal hand through his wavy locks.

You take a big gulp and try to discreetly position the sofa pillow over your crotch. “Yeah, I think that’ll work.”

*

**May 2014**

Alexander Pierce’s name is dragged through the mud. The news becomes obsessed with secret organizations and double identities. Most people now seem to regard whoever killed Pierce and the other dirty SHIELD agents as some kind of dark angel.

You feel terrible for the good SHIELD agents, like Amanda, Natasha, and even Fury, until the text Bucky requested from Pierce’s phone surfaces on Wikileaks. Everyone not on that list is completely exonerated, and the congressional shutdown of SHIELD ends. Project Insight is permanently buried, and the terrible shadow of what could have happened starts new conversations about national security. 

Bucky’s eating now. Real solid meals. Sometimes he can’t finish them but he’s maintaining his caloric intake and for the most part, his body is able to process the food he takes in. You can tell he has trouble sleeping though. Either because there are tell-tale bags underneath his eyes, or sometimes you will hear a thump upstairs, which sounds a lot like he fell out of bed. He never tells you if he did so you don’t press.

He also got a new identity - Carroll Damaschin. 

Carroll is from Topeka, Kansas and he’s a pretty good mechanic (excellent, if you ask Raymond). When you asked why Bucky chose that name, he says he wanted a Romanian name to honor his Nan. Carroll means ‘free man’ in Romanian, and Bucky likes the way Damaschin rolls off his tongue. 

It’s not that you don’t like the name Carroll but that’s not his name. Worried that you will slip up and say Bucky instead, you just resign not to use his name at all when around anyone outside of the family. The family does the same with the both of you whenever outsiders are around.

At first, Bucky hides up in the attic during youth meetings. It’s understandable considering what happened with Cassie. But you arrange a sit down between him and her and then explain to Cassie that Bucky is a runaway, just like she once was. 

When Cassie asks Bucky why he ran away and was hiding in the woods, he tells her that bad people did bad things to him and he didn’t know where else to go. Cassie accepts this with all of the empathy and sentiment of a former runaway who was abused by her parents. She asks Bucky to come downstairs so she can introduce him to her friends. Bucky could never refuse doe eyes, so he goes.

The kids take to Bucky right away. You try not to eavesdrop, but you overhear conversation about his ‘cool hair’ and the possibility that he’s hiding a metal arm under his long sleeve shirts. 

Like you, Bucky doesn’t talk much. He likes to hang out on the front porch and play with Blanca. Within a few weeks, there’s a steady group of kids who just so happen to always end up on the porch with him, playing games and trading gossip. Sometimes they ask to play with his hair. Bucky always lets them. Some nights he ends up with braids or barretts or even bows.

Raymond hires Bucky to work at the auto shop. Bucky seems to enjoy the work. He talks to Raymond more than anyone else in the house, except for you.

When neither one of you are at work, you and Bucky spend a lot of time together, catching up. Sometimes you walk through the garden. Sometimes deeper, into the forest and back to the stream. 

You soon discover that he uses his notebook for sorting through memories. Bucky has recovered up to over two hundred distinct memories and he’s working on a second book. Sometimes he asks you to help him piece them together, other times, he reads them to you to see if you have a different perspective of what happened. This usually results in a debate or teasing each other about selective recall. It’s almost always fun, except for the times he recalls something sad like your ma’s funeral or his dad’s accident.

The more time you spend together, the more you are reminded of how hard it used to be to hide how much you love him. You find yourself gazing into his eyes a little too long and sneaking glances when he’s not looking. You are certain sometimes he catches you, but he never says anything. 

Soon it’s time to plant your Penstemons again. You ask Bucky to help you. Kneeling down in the dirt, Bucky digs with both metal and flesh hands. You drop the seeds while wondering how he would respond if you told him you are in love.

*

**June 2014**

Bucky’s arm starts hurting. Right around the shoulder. It gives him problems at work now and you’re getting worried. Everyone suggests you take him to a doctor, but it seems too risky. Bucky, of course, carries on like it’s not a big deal, but you can see the strain of it in the way he holds himself and how he sometimes winces.

Blanca stays close to him now. Bucky seems better whenever he gets to stroke her fur. But that doesn’t allay your fears about what kind of damage has been caused by the strain of his arm on his shoulder.

Raymond asks if he can take a look at it. Bucky is hesitant at first, but finally gives him permission. Raymond grabs his toolkit and a first aid box and they disappear upstairs for a few hours. 

You try to focus on the book you are reading, but it’s no use. You end up just sitting in the living room, right beneath Raymond’s room, listening for any indication that Bucky is in distress.

When they finally emerge, Raymond has a tray of metal under his arm. Bucky’s t-shirt is soaked and his hair is plastered to his face, but he’s moving differently. His upper body doesn’t look so stiff and his shoulders are more relaxed. When he raises his metal arm and straightens it out, it looks less bulky, like a whole chunk of it has been extracted. 

“What did you do?” you ask Raymond.

“Removed a lot of unnecessary metal,” he says. “At least forty pounds.”

“You feel better?” you ask. 

Bucky looks at Raymond and smiles. “Yeah. I think we may have a genius in the house.”

Raymond preens and gives Bucky a nod. “Damn right.”

*

It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon in late June. You and Bucky are at the stream relaxing. He’s trying to catch tadpoles in his hands while you sit on a rock and soak your feet in the water, enjoying the coolness. Neither of you is really saying much, but the silence is comfortable. 

You’ve been coming back here with Bucky for over a month now to re-live memories together. It would be the perfect time and place to tell him how you feel about him. But instead of confessing your feelings you end up talking about something much easier.

“Could you ever imagine a place like this for kids when we were coming along?” you ask tentatively.

Bucky smiles as he brings a tadpole up to his face to inspect. “No way. I really think you and your friends are doing something good here.”

“You’re a part of it now too,” you say. 

Bucky gives a little half-shrug. “I don’t really do anything.”

“You’re there for them. That counts for a lot.” You gulp down your nervousness and turn to fully face him. “You know, helping the kids here has helped me sort some things out for myself.”

Bucky stands up and looks at you. “I always wondered if you were…. you know…different.”

Your pulse picks up. You knew he had thoughts about the queer stuff, but you had no idea he ever thought that.

“When you say always…”

“Since we were like fourteen,” Bucky says.

You raise your eyebrows. “What made you think I was queer at fourteen?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t think you were, I just wondered.”

“Why would you wonder though?” you prod, cause you’re curious as hell now.

Bucky’s eyes fall to your mouth, and you think you’re imagining things. You really need to remember that he’s your best friend, and just came back from literal hell. _Seriously, this is not the time._

“I dunno, Stevie. Just a hunch.”

You exhale slowly. “When we were coming along they didn’t have name for liking both girls and boys.”

“They sure didn’t. Not good ones anyway,” Bucky says. “But I’m glad they do now and that you found something that fits you.”

Your heartbeat slows out as a comforting new peace settles over you. Bucky doesn’t care that you’re queer. Of course he doesn’t.

The Penstemons you and Bucky planted are in full bloom now. Zeik sections off a new area in the garden just for Bucky. Bucky tells you he wants you to help him plant Asters. 

*

**July 2014**

Floyd goes all out for your birthday this year, arranging even bigger fireworks than the previous year, in addition to a huge cookout. 

It feels like nearly half the town is there. Well, the queer half, which is the better half in your opinion. Zeik brings a date, a guy he’s been talking to for a few weeks now. His name is Derrick and he is a handsome fella. A little darker than Raymond and taller than Zeik by an inch with impressive arms. He has ink covering every inch of both of them. Most importantly though, he’s very polite and treats Zeik like he’s special. You like him a lot. 

Bucky has a little fan club of youth now, and wherever he is, there are a bunch of kids nearby, and of course, Blanca. His hair is longer now, just past his shoulders. Today the kids have chalked it red, white, and blue. In your opinion, Bucky is really ‘working it’ as Kyle would say. 

Despite Floyd’s insistence that you not work on your birthday, you take over the grill. But Bucky keeps flipping back his hair and it’s so distracting. You nearly burn yourself, which Floyd promptly points out, and finally you concede the grill to him.

As you make your way over to see what Bucky and the kids are talking about, Bucky throws his head back to laugh at something. He just looks so beautiful like that, you can’t help but stop and stare. When he turns his head and catches you staring, you panic and turn around abruptly, nearly knocking over a pitcher of lemonade. You mumble a lame excuse about getting more lettuce and run behind the house like you’re going to pick some from the garden.

You are crouched down in the dirt, silently berating yourself when you hear footsteps approach.

“I saw that,” Zeik says behind you.

“Saw what?” you ask, playing dumb.

Zeik sighs. “Steve, when are you gonna tell him?”

“He's still getting back on his feet,” you say stubbornly.

“He looks fine to me.”

“People don’t just recover from what he’s been through in a few months,” you argue.

“It might take _years_ for him to recover,” Zeik points out. “Maybe even a lifetime. You’re willing to wait that long?” 

You open your mouth to protest, but Zeik’s footsteps are already retreating.

When you finally stand up and turn to go back to the party, Bucky throws you a questioning look. 

“Everything, alright?” he asks. “Zeik looked put out.”

“Oh it’s nothing,” you say. “We just had a little argument about how to season burgers.”

Bucky raises one eyebrow that says ‘stop shitting me’. 

You ignore it and change the subject. “You enjoying yourself?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, looking around at the youth running and screaming in the front lawn where an epic water gun fight is taking place. “These kids are nuts. Do you see what they did to my hair?”

You smile. “It looks good.”

Bucky’s cheeks pinken a little. “Thanks. I uh, got you something, for your birthday. But I want to give it to you later, in private.”

A warm giddiness bubbles up inside of you. “OK. Can’t wait.”

After everyone’s eaten their fill of burgers, hotdogs, and veggie pasta, Kyle brings out a very colorful and large round birthday cake. There are ten candles arranged at thetop in the shape of a heart. They crackle and shoot off sparks like are literal firecrackers. You ask Kyle if they are safe and he just laughs. Everyone gathers all around you and sings “Happy Birthday, Micheal”. You have trouble blowing out the candles though. Then Kyle and Raymond point at you and say, “Sike!” Apparently it’s some kind of trick; they aren’t real candles. 

“You guys are jerks,” you say with a smile. Everyone laughs and you get several hugs. It’s a beautiful moment and you make sure to take a mental picture of being surrounded by your family. With Bucky here, it finally feels complete.

The party continues until twilight when Floyd announces it’s time for the fireworks. There’s palpable anticipation in the air as everyone gathers on the front porch or in the yard. Bucky chooses a spot right near the edge, where the grass meets the gravel, to lay down a picnic blanket. 

“Is this seat taken?” you ask once he gets settled.

He smiles up at you and leans back on his elbows. “Nope.”

You take a seat right beside him and get comfortable. 

Cheers erupt as the first explosion of red sparks shoot up across the sky. You look over to see Bucky’s reaction but he’s watching you.

“Happy Birthday, _Steve,_ ” he whispers.

You chuckle. “Thank you, Buck.”

The fireworks are amazing, but even better because Bucky is beside you while you watch them. 

After Floyd’s big finale, the party fizzles out. Zeik and Floyd make runs to take youth home while you, Bucky, and the rest of the family put away the leftovers.

Eventually, everyone is either gone home or up to bed. You and Bucky wander back over to your picnic blanket on the front lawn. 

The night sky is cloudless and littered with stars. When Bucky points up and outlines the big dipper like he used to, your chest swells with gratitude. It’s 2014 and you and your best friend are looking up at the sky like it's 1936. You don’t know why both of you survived to have this moment, but you say a silent ‘thank you’ as you reflect on it.

From this vantage point you can see scattered fireworks in the distance, they rise and fall like meteor showers all over the town of Lincoln. You and Bucky watch them in silence for several minutes.

“So, how does it feel to be ninety-six?” Bucky asks.

“Pretty damn good,” you reply. 

His dimpled chin is turned up and the stars lights up his eyes. With his head tilted, his long streaked hair brushes against the blanket. It takes all of your willpower not to lean over and run your hands through it.

“Got you something,” Bucky says, sitting up to reach into his back pocket. 

He holds out a small red box with a white bow.

Inside is a white gold pocket watch opened wide. You pick it up and stare at the only picture you and Bucky ever took together as kids. 1934. You remember the photographer at Coney Island charged a whole dollar to take it. That was way too much money for either of you, but Bucky insisted because it was your sixteenth birthday. You were wearing Bucky’s favorite black-striped t-shirt because you ruined yours when you threw up on the Cyclone. The shirt is really baggy on your thin frame. Bucky has on his undershirt, a white cotton tank. It shows off his developing muscles. He has his arm around your shoulders and the two of you are really cheesing it up big time for the photo.

“Where did you get this?”

Bucky smirks. “The Smithsonian.”

You gasp. “What?”

“I have no idea how they got it,” Bucky says with a tiny shrug. “But when I saw it, I knew I had to take it. That’s ours.”

“Bucky….” you breathe before breaking into a laugh. 

He grins. “Look at the back.”

You flip it over and read the inscription. It’s written in cursive - _‘Till the End of the Line._

Folding your lips, you duck your head.

“Don’t get all sappy on me now,” Bucky teases.

You swallow down a lump in your throat. “This is really special, Buck. Thank you.”

“You’re really special,” Bucky says. 

He’s staring at you now, and you want to say so many things but you tear your eyes away and push it all down. You have to try and remember how selfish it is to want more from him. Be grateful for what you have now. 

“Um, we better clean up,” you say hastily. “Look at this mess.”

Bucky huffs. “It’s your birthday, Stevie. No cleaning! We’ll get it later. Let’s just go to bed.”

You look around at all of the streamers and balloons along the back porch, knowing they go on towards the front as well. The day catches up with you and the fatigue from it makes your eyes heavy. 

“Yeah, OK. Time for bed.”

*

You are beginning to drift into sleep when you hear a scratching at your door. It’s Blanca, of course.

But it’s hard to get up, you’re already settled and comfortable in bed. Besides, Blanca’s obviously chosen Bucky as her favorite in the house. Eventually she will turn around and go back up to sleep with him.

The scratching continues, followed by a meow.

“Geez, Blanca, what do you want?” you ask, finally getting up.

When you open the door, Blanca darts in, but someone else is also there.

Bucky has his hair tied up, and he’s wearing light cotton Incredible Hulk pajamas. He looks adorable.

“Hey, Buck, everything alright?”

“Yeah, I...couldn’t sleep,” he says. His eyes are full of trepidation, which makes you worry.

“Come in,” you say, opening the door wider.

He shuffles in and you close the door. “Nightmares?”

“Um…” Bucky scratches his head. “Not exactly.”

You frown. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I, uh, just have some things on my mind.”

“OK,” you say cautiously, your concern climbing.

“Steve, I didn’t mean to…” He pauses, twisting his mouth up, like he’s struggling to find the words.

You draw closer, desperate to do whatever you can to put his mind at ease. “What is it, Buck?”

He sighs. “I don’t want to cause any problems between you and... anyone in the house.”

“You’re not. You’re not at all,” you try to reassure him even as your mind combs through everything you've seen and heard in the last few days that may have prompted this. What in the world is he talking about? 

Bucky looks thoroughly unimpressed. “When I first got here, you said you were thinking about asking someone out and then changed your mind...that person wouldn’t happen to be Zeik, would it?”

You inhale sharply. 

“No, I mean… it doesn’t matter now,” you hear yourself say. It’s barely a whisper over the continuous loop of the word _SHIT!!!_ going through your head. 

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Looks like it matters to me. He _likes_ you, Steve. And now he’s bringing another guy around? It’s obvious he’s just trying to get your attention.”

You shake your head. “No, that’s not true.”

“Jesus, I’m not blind. Zeik’s a good looking guy and you guys get on really well. You should go for it before he really does move on.”

“I don’t want to!” you whisper fiercely with annoyance.

This feels too familiar. Like a hundred arguments you had before the war. Why does Bucky always push you to date other people? It hurts in ways he can’t imagine, but you can’t reveal. 

Bucky shakes his head. “Look, I saw the way you were staring at him today.”

“What?” you ask in bewilderment.

“He was standing right behind me, you were practically drooling,” Bucky says. “And then you ran away to the garden. I saw him follow you. When he came back, he looked upset. What happened?”

You sigh. “It’s not what you think, Bucky.”

“Then explain why you suddenly didn’t want to ask him out anymore. He is the one you were talking about, right?”

You rub your forehead, feeling an approaching headache growing there. “Yes. Zeik _used_ to like me. And I _was_ thinking about asking him out, but ...”

“But what?”

Times like this you hate the serum. You can practically hear your heart beating manically inside your chest. “Then you came back…”

Bucky shakes his head vehemently as he backs up towards the door. “That’s what I thought! This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. You can date, Steve. You _should_ date. Live your life. I don’t need a babysitter. I’m not helpless.”

“I know!” you say. “You’re the strongest person I know.” You take another step towards him. Thankfully he doesn’t withdraw. “Bucky, listen...before everything...the serum, the war...there was you and me.”

Bucky huffs. “Hydra may have scrambled my brains, pal, but I remember that much. But we’re not kids anymore. We don’t have to be attached at the hip.”

“You’re right. We don’t,” you concede. “But just because we grew up doesn’t mean everything is different. Some things never change.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Like what?”

“Like…” You clench your eyes shut and force it out. “Like feelings... When I was younger I couldn’t tell you…” 

You look down, not sure how to continue. You’ve had this fantasy of confessing your love for Bucky a thousand times but it never looked like this. You’re messing it up. 

When you look back up, Bucky appears frozen, his eyes glued to yours.

“Couldn’t tell me what?” he asks in a strained voice. 

It’s now or never. Maybe not _never._ You could always tell him later. When both of you aren’t wired, coming down from a long day in the sun. This seems like a bad time. Bucky just escaped captivity only a few months before. What if you put him in a situation he’s not ready for? What if he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings? Or feels obligated to you and ---

“Steve?”

Your tongue is twisted into a knot. You swallow to straighten it out.

“I wasn’t drooling over Zeik today. I was staring at _you._ I have ... feelings for you,” you push out before holding your breath once again. 

You search Bucky’s face for any hint of disapproval or revulsion. There is none. Just a look of utter shock. You’re shaking inside, praying that once his shock wears off, you won’t lose his friendship.

“But, you don’t have to feel the same, OK?” you say quickly, desperate to preserve any remnants of your friendship. “Nothing has to change; you'll always be my best friend. I don’t want you to think that--”

“Shut up.”

You pause mid-sentence, open mouth, your heart in your throat now. This was a mistake. You just went and threw away the most important friendship in your life all because you were feeling brave and stupid.

“I’m sor--”

Bucky’s metal hand twists in your t-shirt and he yanks you close until you can feel the heat of his breath against your face. It smells like cool mint Crest. Your favorite. His eyes are so damn big and bright. You’re already lost in them. 

“How long?” he demands.

You squeeze your eyes shut again. Suddenly it’s 1930 and you’re back in Mrs. Finley’s classroom. Bucky is surrounded by a bunch of giggling girls and jealousy burns through you like a hot poker. 

“Sixth grade.”

There’s no response. But in the silence you can hear your unsteady breathing. 

“Holy shit, Stevie...why didn’t you tell me?”

You open your eyes, and see Bucky’s big wet beautiful eyes. His tears teeter just on the inside of his lids, ready to fall. His mouth hangs open, just like yours. Like he has to gasp to breathe because he can’t get enough air. 

“I’m telling you now,” you say before you completely lose your nerve.

Bucky gasps for real then and his unshed tears fall. You telegraph your intent as you raise your hand to his face.

“What exactly are you telling me, pal? Not sure what you mean by _feelings_ ,” he says with a smirk as you wipe a runaway tear from his cheek.

“You asshole,” you breathe.

“Takes one to know one,” he whispers as his eyes fall to your lips.

You thought you were having trouble breathing before, but now you’re not even trying. 

Because your best friend, the only man you’ve ever been in love with and thought you could never have, is leaning in to kiss you.

You feel Bucky’s stubble brush your lips as he slots his mouth against yours. It’s plenty chapped and wet from where he just licked it. Minty and warm, he’s being oh so careful. It’s kinda driving you crazy. His grip on your shirt loosens and his metal hand falls to grip your waist. You clutch at his arm and let the hand on his face slide through his hair to cradle his head. You can feel the curl of his smile on your lips, it tickles your beard. Then he opens his mouth and beckons you to do the same. All of your previous fears of being really bad at this fade away. This is just like dancing. You may not be so good at it, but Bucky knows how to lead you. 

You fall into the warm comfort of his mouth, tasting and testing how to move your tongue. Bucky sighs like he’s pleased, encouraging you to keep going. It’s everything you dreamed of and so much better. The vibration and sound of his quiet moan against your mouth sends a thrill through your entire body. You hum in contentment and then finally pull back.

When you open your eyes this time, Bucky’s smiling. 

“You really are a sap,” he says, wiping your wet face with his flesh hand. 

“You cried first,” you point out.

Bucky snorts. “Can I stay in here, with you tonight?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

*

The bed is surprisingly accommodating for both of your large frames. Bucky still likes being the Big Spoon and right now that just suits you just fine. The arm wrapping around you may be metal and his body may have more bulk, but this still feels familiar.

“You used to hate being the Little Spoon,” he whispers, there’s a cocky smirk in his voice.

“I only hated it because it reminded me of what I couldn’t have,” you admit. 

“Are you talking about my dick, pal?”

“No!” you whisper fiercely, your face growing hot. Thank goodness the lights are off. 

Bucky snickers into your back, and you wonder if this is what it would have been like if you had revealed your true feelings before the war. What great memories could you two have created? You sigh, a little mournful for all the time lost. 

“I wish I had told you sooner,” you whisper. It sounds loud to your ears.

“You know I used to dream about telling you,” Bucky says. “But…” 

His metal hand tightens around your waist. You stare into the darkness of the room, listening to him think. 

“I wasn’t sure if you were like that. And even if you were, there were consequences,” he says at last. “Remember what happened to Arnie?”

You shut your eyes but can’t block out the memory of Arnie Roth and the way his face was rearranged after getting jumped. His jaw and nose were never the same, and he lost a few adult teeth. His mom couldn’t afford to replace them so the kids used to tease him about it. But you never forgot why Arnie’s teeth were missing. And apparently Bucky didn’t either.

“Yeah, I remember,” you murmur. 

“You were smaller than him. I was always worried that if we ever….I didn’t want you getting hurt.”

You scoff, torn between being touched and offended. “I didn’t need you protecting me, Buck. We could have---”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he says, pulling you tighter against his chest. “I don’t want to waste time on what-ifs.”

His warm lips press into your skin and then trace a hot line across your neck. You shiver and bite back a sigh. 

“Me either,” you whisper.

*

Bucky goes to sleep for a little while, but sometime after 1am, he awakes with a jerk, shivering. He’s soaking wet. You recognize what he’s experiencing immediately. 

You slowly slide out of bed, and grab the warm bottled water off of your dresser. Blanca creeps up from the foot of the bed to rub her head against Bucky's chest. 

“Sorry,” he says.

“Don’t apologize. Happens to me all the time,” you say, offering him the water.

He takes it and gulps it down. “Thanks.”

“Need some space?” you ask.

“No, get over here,” he orders. 

You suppress a smile and slide back into bed beside him.

*

The next morning you wake up to Bucky’s breath blowing in small tufts over your chest. Your left arm is trapped between your body and his. He’s laid out on his stomach, his head on the pillow next to yours, his metal arm thrown over your torso. 

The hair tie in his hair is hanging by a few strands. The rest of Bucky’s dark wavy hair fans out over his face and pillow. 

You reach over with your right hand to push some of his hair back so you can stare at the way his eyelashes rest against the crest of his sharp cheekbones. His pouty lips barely move with each breath.

Staring at him like this will never get old. 

Slowly his eyes blink open, like he feels you watching him. “Mornin’” he says, looking up.

“Good morning.” You jostle his arm to lean over and give him a kiss. 

When he kisses you back it’s slow and sweet like molasses. Just as your tongues begin to playfully explore, Bucky pulls back with a strange expression.

“What?” you ask.

“It’s so weird I get to kiss you now,” he says. “After they captured me, I thought about kissing you all the time, but I couldn’t tell if it was a memory or some deluded fantasy.”

You frown, anger bubbling up again.

Bucky puts his flesh hand on your forehead and slowly drags his palm down over your nose and mouth. “Stop making that face. I _survived._ ”

You grunt, suppressing the urge to launch into a rant about rooting every Hydra asshole out of existence.

Down the hall, Raymond’s door creaks open and at the foot of the bed, Blanca meows and jumps down to the floor. 

“Oh shit, she’s been here the entire time?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah, and now she wants out,” you say, sliding out of bed to open the door. 

Blanca prances out the door and down to Raymond’s room.

You pause, listening to the familiar sounds of pots and pans and voices drifting from the kitchen. 

“So Zeik is really over you?” Bucky asks when you close the door. 

“Yeah,” you smile. “We worked through it. He really is moving on now. The reason why he was upset yesterday was because I still hadn’t confessed my feelings to you.”

“You know, I always liked that guy,” Bucky says, which makes you chuckle. Bucky’s lip curls up into a sly smirk. “Wanna join me for a shower?”

“Oh...um...” you stammer as Bucky stands up and stretches. His Hulk PJs pull over his muscles, giving way a little in the middle to expose creamy skin.

“We don’t have to if you’re not ready,” he says in a lazy drawl. “I don’t want to rush you.”

“It’s not a rush,” you say quickly. “No rush at all. I’m… I’m ready.”

Bucky bites his bottom lip and looks at you from under his eyelashes. “OK,” he says, reaching out for your hand. 

He tugs you closer and your eyelids flutter as your bodies collide. The long rigid line of his erection pressed against yours is making your head swim. Then he leans in, tracing his lips along your neck. “Think if I suck hard enough, it’ll last as long as a tattoo?”

“Only one way to find out,” you gasp out as his stubble tickles your neck.

Bucky pulls back, grinning. “Let’s shower first… I wanna save the other stuff for later.”

You pout a little at that and Bucky outright laughs. 

“You could always call out sick,” he suggests, raising one eyebrow. “Then we can take our time. The house would be completely empty.” 

You start to cough. “Yeah, I think I’m coming down with something.”

Bucky chuckles. “That’s too bad. Summer colds suck. And you’re such a baby when you get sick. I’ll tell Ray I need the day off so I can stay home and take care of you.”

You bury your head into his shoulder to hide your grin, your heart soaring. 

“You said home…” you murmur into his hair.

“Yeah, Stevie,” Bucky says. “Wherever you are, that’s home for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song on the radio is Def Leppard's 'Love Bites'. 
> 
> So that's it, folks! My headcanon for this story is that they live happily ever at the hostel until they are ready to find a house of their own, nearby of course :D. The rest of the family stays as well until they meet someone they want to settle down with, but they always stick close to the hostel. There are no major disturbances, just an occasional drop-in from Natasha. Fury never visits, but sends little messages inquiring how Steve is through her. Steve hides Bucky from Natasha at first, but slowly comes to trust her and then eventually (re)introduces them. Amanda and Steve reconnect through Natasha. They talk either by burner phone or Skype, mostly about Amanda's frustrating dating life and Steve's new career and outreach. Steve asks Amanda about health care on the run, and she gives him some off the grid tricks for getting checked out, which Steve promptly uses for both him and Bucky. Eventually Steve tells Amanda he's in a relationship and she squees about it, but doesn't ask for too many details.
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading. I had a blast telling this story. <3


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